


Mnemosyne

by missmungoe



Series: Shanties for the Weary Voyager [15]
Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF!Makino, Belligerent Sexual Tension, F/M, Falling in Love (again), Kuja!Makino, Memory Loss, Parenthood, Pining, Portgas D. Ace Lives, Romance, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-06-11 09:57:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 210,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15313005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmungoe/pseuds/missmungoe
Summary: She doesn’t remember her life before the human market, or before Amazon Lily. The only clues she has is her name, and the silver anchor around her neck.And that her daughter has red hair.





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Follows [Siren's Call](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6428275) from chapter 16. Someone asked me what would have happened if Makino had found out she was pregnant after the Red-Hair Pirates left Fuschia, and what Shanks’ reaction would be, if he would have come back earlier, or if she would even have told him about it, and while I was thinking up potential ways to spin it, my mind of course went for the most dramatic route.
> 
> Also, I've never done an amnesia fic? I figured it was about time, my trope-loving heart considered.

Life went on, after he left her.

Makino wasn’t surprised that it did—was too practical to wallow in self-pity for long, and even missing him didn’t change the fact that she had a business to run, and things to do besides waiting. She’d made the decision to stay, after all, and even if he’d promised her to come back, to ask her again, ten years didn’t pass in the blink of an eye, and she wasn’t going to waste them being miserable.

The ache of longing still remained, feeling his absence, fiercely now that she knew what her life was like with him in it, and even if she did her best to live it, some days were hard, waking without him, and going to sleep without him, missing his laughter and his humour and the way he’d loved her.

It was anything but _easy_ , learning to be alone again, and without the assurance that he’d be coming back in a few weeks, and so to occupy her mind and her heart both, Makino did everything she could think of to keep her hands busy. She repainted the common room, and reorganised her pantry. She read the books he’d left her, cover to cover, then read them again. She started visiting Dadan more often, now that Garp had brought Luffy to stay there permanently, and stitched and patched every torn shirt and shorts and rogue sock that she could get her hands on, which was a considerable amount, with three growing boys who didn’t know how to sit still.

But it worked. Between her customers and her routines, the friends who visited and who kept her company, and the three boys who filled the rest of her time, the ache lessened, bit by bit, until she wasn’t thinking about him with every single breath, or counting the days in her head without meaning to.

And she kept herself so distracted from thinking about him, it took her weeks to realise that something was wrong.

She woke before the sun, bolting for the bathroom, her body reacting even before her mind could catch up with it, and she’d just managed to scramble for the toilet bowl before she was heaving into it.

It didn’t last long—not like the time she’d eaten bad shellfish when she was younger and had spent three whole days being sick—but barely out of sleep and with vomit in her hair, it was anything but a gentle awakening, and the shivering groan that left her lamented as much, where she slumped against the toilet on the cold tiles.

It took her a few breaths to gather herself, to wipe her mouth and wash the residue vomit out of her hair, and by the time she was done and certain she wasn’t facing a cheerful reprise, she was fully awake. And not seeing the point of lounging about in bed, she got dressed and went downstairs, and when she’d readied her bar to open, three hours early, did whatever weekly chores were left, until every glass and bottle and jar on her shelf was polished, and she had nothing to do but to wait for her earliest customers; the ones who stopped by for breakfast, regular as clockwork.

And it was a small relief after the morning she’d had to lose herself to the work she loved. She didn’t even think about the odd bout of nausea that had dragged her out of bed. Not until she was shouldering her way out of the kitchen, two plates of eggs and bacon in her hands, did she think about it, the reminder seizing her whole body where she halted in her tracks, panic reaching her half a second before the need to be violently sick, and she’d barely had time to put the plates down and reach for the waste bin behind the counter before she was emptying her stomach loudly into it.

“Makino-san!”

There were several people gathered by the bar when she rose back up, discreetly wiping her mouth on her sleeve, and she felt the flush of embarrassment where it scalded her skin, taking in the concern on their faces.

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Do you need to sit down?”

“You look a little flushed—is it the bug that’s been going around?”

She waved them off mildly, reaching for what she hoped was a disarming laugh. “I’m fine,” she promised. “I must have eaten something, is all.”

Their worry persisted, endearing if unnecessary, and it took some more convincing just to get them back in their seats, but by the time things had settled down, there wasn’t so much as a stirring of nausea left, and she resumed her work with her usual vigour, which was more convincing that whatever verbal assurances she might have offered, allowing her to go about her business in peace.

But there was no reason for them to worry. She didn’t feel sick, and it would be silly to close the bar just because she’d eaten something that disagreed with her. She’d finish her shift and get a good night’s sleep, and it would all be forgotten by morning.

 

—

 

But the next day greeted her in the same fashion, and the one after that, although she still didn’t feel _sick,_  exactly. There was no fever, or anything resembling an illness, at least not beyond the occasional dizzy spell and the fact that she couldn’t seem to keep food down.

She wrote it off as a persistent stomach bug, and resolved not to worry about it. She still felt fine, and fully capable of completing her usual work, although she kept it in her mind now, and when she felt the need to step out and throw up, she did so discreetly.

She didn’t even consider the fact that it might be something else; something very specific. Not until one morning when she was getting dressed and she couldn’t pull the zipper of her skirt closed.

“What?” she murmured, pulling at the waist, only to find it wouldn’t close—couldn’t, on account of being too tight.

Makino blinked down at it, palming the zipper and the soft blue fabric. It was a few weeks since she’d worn this particular skirt, but that it shouldn’t fit her seemed a bit odd. She knew her own measurements in her sleep; she'd sewn it herself.

She considered her reflection in the mirror, her embroidered blouse unbuttoned and her skirt hanging off her hips; observed the small body beneath, not as foreign to her now as it had been once, and comfortable with looking at it in a way she hadn’t been—not until Shanks, and the kisses that had sought to know every nook, and every stretch of skin, and which still warmed her cheeks, remembering.

She hadn’t changed much in the three months that had passed since he'd left. Her hair was a little longer, the tips reaching beneath her jawline now, but otherwise she looked the same as she always had, although—

Brushing her fingers over her stomach, she saw in the mirror as her frown deepened. She’d put on a little weight. Not much, and only around her waist, enough for her skirts and dresses to feel a bit tight, although she hadn’t thought much about it, until now. And it was strange that she should be _gaining_ weight, when she’d been throwing up so much—

Her breath shuddered out, and her hand dropped from her stomach. And she knew then, what was wrong with her—knew what connected all the little oddities that had sprouted up, like tiny, unexpected weeds in her orderly life.

“Oh,” Makino said, very softly.

 

—

 

She had it confirmed the same morning. The local physician, who upon hearing her symptoms had taken one long, knowing look at her, and whose expression had said enough about her diagnosis even before she’d completed her physical.

Still. “Pregnant?”

She didn’t know for whose sake she was saying it, or if she was just speaking it out loud to make it feel more real—didn’t even know why it came out sounding like a question, when she’d already suspected it to be the case.

The little clinic felt suddenly stifling, even with the open window and the dewy morning air wetting the glass with tiny little pearls. She felt hyper aware of her own body, sitting there on the bed, her hands laced loosely around the slight bump that now had a very real, very good explanation.

She should have realised it sooner. She’d been late, but she’d been so busy trying to keep herself _busy_ , she’d barely offered the fact a second thought.

The woman sitting across from her hadn’t spoken since confirming her fears, but her expression softened a bit with understanding now, and Makino didn’t have to wonder if she knew who the father was. Everyone knew everyone’s business in Fuschia, and it wasn’t like her affair with the charming captain of a frequently visiting crew of pirates had gone by unnoticed. Everyone _knew._

“Physically, you’re in good health,” she said. Her name was Yara; Makino had known her all her life, which only made this a little bit worse than if she’d been a complete stranger. Unfortunately, there were none of those in Fuschia, least of all any who practiced medicine. “Just take it easy, and go about your day as you'd normally do.” Her smile quirked, looking suddenly fond. “I knew your mother well, and I’ve known you since you were little. I’m familiar with your particular work ethic and I know it doesn’t include a lot of sick days, but you’re responsible for more than just yourself now. Be sure to pace yourself.”

_You’re responsible for more than just yourself now._

Makino nodded absently, and was only vaguely paying attention to what Yara was saying as she packed up her equipment, and was barely aware of herself as she took her leave, a warm hand squeezing her shoulder reassuringly, and sending her off with a promise to come back for another check-up in a few weeks.

She walked home as the sun rose up, feeling adrift.

She didn’t know what to do. Did she tell him? _Should_ she? How would she even get in touch with him, halfway across the world or more? They would have reached the Grand Line by now, and she knew nothing of that sea other than the fact that few people were said to ever return from it; that even the Government hadn’t charted every island and territory on it. Shanks could be anywhere. She wouldn’t even know where to begin looking, or how.

The questions tossed and turned in her head, like a restless sea, making her dizzy. It didn’t help that she had to bend over the side of the street to vomit, the reminder seeming particularly spiteful after the morning she'd had, as though to say _how could you have missed this? A whole week?_

Thankfully, it was too early for anyone to be around to witness her uncontrolled retching, and suddenly certain they’d all know her secret the moment they laid eyes on her, Makino picked up her feet, desperate for a moment of privacy, if only to collect herself from the morning’s ordeals.

But stepping through the doors of her bar, she came to a stop, considering the empty establishment, and herself, feeling smaller than she had in months—like she hadn’t felt since that very first day, when Shanks had first walked through her doorway.

The thought of him prompted another, and her breath felt suddenly like it required effort, looking down at her stomach, curving gently under her loose sundress, the only thing in her wardrobe that hadn’t seemed to broadcast her weight gain, and the truth it all but shouted to the world.

Her first customers would be arriving soon. And all the chores were done, courtesy of restless hands as she’d waited for Yara to open her clinic, but for the life of her, Makino couldn’t muster the will to do it. Not today, when she couldn’t stop thinking about it; the one thing even work wouldn't let her forget, now that she knew.

Pregnant. _Pregnant._

It didn’t matter how many times she turned the word over in her head; it still didn’t feel real. And with every new question came another. How would she even manage, raising a child and running her business, all on her own? She had no experience to draw from. She didn’t have any siblings, and beyond watching Luffy from time to time, knew nothing about raising a child. And _Shanks_ —

It kept coming back to him, no matter which direction her thoughts ventured. She still had no idea how she’d even tell him, but prodding at that thought made her wonder what would happen when she did, until she was left with questions she didn’t even know if she wanted to know the answer to.

Would he even want to know? Would it change anything if he did?

For the first time since she’d started running it, barring the weeks right after Shanks’ amputation, Makino put up the rarely-used sign announcing her bar closed for business. And she didn’t pause to consider her empty establishment as she walked upstairs, toeing off her shoes, even as she didn’t have the strength to remove anything else as she crawled under the covers.

She lay there as the morning passed, looking out the window as the sun crawled up to the roof of the sky, listening to the seagulls and worrying the silver anchor around her neck, the fingers of her other hand splayed over the curve of her stomach under her dress. She traced it restlessly, over and over, her thoughts following the same circular paths, round and round.

A child. She was going to have a child. She was twenty years old and she was going to have a _child_.

Shanks’ child, she thought then, her fingers tightening over her stomach as her breath rushed out, along with a dry sob.

Turning over on her back, Makino considered the ceiling of her bedroom, and the sunlight slanting across it. She tried to think about the last time she’d lain there with him, his laughter drowsy and pressed into the sheets, his skin sun-dark and scarred and his hair redder than anything, and his body warm and reaching for her as he kissed her out of breath, but when she looked over on the left, there was nothing, just empty sheets. The pillow didn’t even smell like him anymore.

It hurt, remembering that joy—remembering _him_ , and everything he’d been to her, and still was.

And he had loved her. He’d told her that, and that meant something, something more than ten years, and more than any other promise that might have gone unspoken between them.

She had to tell him. Regardless of anything else, he at least deserved to know.

The only problem was that he’d left her with no way to get in touch with him—no number to call, or any method to get so much as a note to him. It would be easier that way, they’d both agreed. They’d live their separate lives, on their separate seas, until he came back for her, like he’d promised. A clean break was easier than trying to be both apart and together at the same time.

Except that their lives weren’t separate anymore. This—this new little life, the one she still couldn’t quite believe existed—changed everything.

She didn’t know how he’d react, but she knew Shanks; knew his good heart, the one that had loved her, and knew that he’d want to know—that he deserved to know, if nothing else. And so telling him would have to be her first step. Whatever happened after that, whatever Shanks did with the information…she’d deal with it then. They both would.

And so she resolved to reach out to the one person she knew who might know of a way to contact him.

 

—

 

“ _Pregnant?_ ”

The undercurrent of fury didn’t let itself be missed, the deep rumble of his voice unwavering as he parroted the word back to her, except it was a deceptive calm; a foreboding roll of thunder that had a shiver shooting down her back.

Setting her jaw, Makino refused to cower. “Garp,” she said, carefully. She’d thought long and hard about how she’d go about having this conversation. So far, it was going exactly how she’d thought it would.

 _“I swear, if I get my hands on that smarmy, slippery_ —”

“That’s why I’m calling,” she cut him off gently, and tried not to focus on how her heart jumped at the mention of him. Her hand curled, white-knuckled around the mouthpiece. “Could you get me in touch with him somehow?”

The line was dead silent, but she knew he hadn’t hung up, from the furious glare the Den Den Mushi was directing at her. Makino felt a flicker of affection at the sight, recognising that the anger wasn’t hers, but for her.

“Please, Garp,” she said, and knew it would do the trick, even before she heard the breath loosed from the other end. It sounded like it took physical effort. “I need to tell him.”

_“Why?”_

Her look softened, considering the snail, still with that frightening expression. “You know why,” she said, softly. “He deserves to know.”

_“He’s a goddamn pirate, Makino.”_

“He is,” she agreed, ignoring how her insides knotted at the reminder, spurring forth the fear she’d tried to keep at bay—that he’d rather not know about it. She tried instead to remind herself of another fact, and one that was more important than either of them, or their chosen professions. “But that doesn’t change the fact that it’s also his child.”

Garp fell silent, and it was a terrible silence. Makino wondered what he was thinking—if he thought she was naive for asking; for wanting to do this, or for just believing it was the right thing to do.

Or perhaps, deep down in that big, righteous heart, the one that remembered the Pirate King differently than the rest of the world, the man he’d been rather than the pirate everyone else were quick to condemn, Garp agreed with her.

 _“You think it’ll change anything?”_ he asked then. _“Between you and Red-Hair?”_

She tried not to flinch at the question, or to demonstrate so vividly that, however firm her conviction that she should tell Shanks about the baby, she still had no idea how he’d react to the news. And it didn’t matter that she’d been asking herself the same thing for weeks; she still wasn’t close to finding an answer.

“I don’t know,” she said, honestly. “But even if it does or doesn’t, he should know. It’s—it’s the right thing to do. Then once he does, he can decide if he wants to be involved or not.”

 _“He better damn well be involved,”_ Garp snapped, his voice suddenly loud where it lashed out from the snail. _“Whether he likes it or—”_

“No,” Makino said, gently but firmly, and knew her expression conveyed the same, from how quickly Garp fell quiet. “Only if he wants to. I’m not making any demands. It will be up to him.”

_“Makino—”_

“Garp,” she said, and was glad when her voice didn’t waver, even as her hand shook around the mouthpiece. “I’ve already made up my mind. I don’t want him to feel like he has a responsibility to come back, or to—to have anything to do with this child.” _With me_ , she didn’t dare say, but thought he still heard it. She paused, and swallowed. “I want him to be involved, but not under duress.”

When Garp still didn’t speak, she pressed her lips together. “Is that what you’d want for me?” she asked.

She could see his reluctance reflected on the snail’s face, in deep furrows and grooves, its mouth downturned at the corners, but it wasn’t petulance she heard when Garp spoke next.  _“I wanted everything for you,”_ he said, and her heart seized painfully at the roughness in his voice. _“Not this. Not raising a kid on your own, with a pirate for a father. And this pirate in particular.”_

Her lower lip trembled, and she tucked it between her teeth. And her voice did waver now, was thick with the tears she was trying her hardest to hold back. “But that’s the reality. I’ve accepted that, and I’m trying to do what’s best—what’s right. For my child. Please, can’t—can’t you just try to do the same? For me?”

Then, before Garp could answer, and before her courage could leave her, “And I’d rather it be his child than anyone else’s,” Makino said, fiercely.

A sigh fell, heavier than she’d ever heard it. _“Fine,”_ Garp grumbled. _“I’ll get the crook’s whereabouts somehow. Shouldn’t be hard to track him down—his crew’s not exactly subtle.”_

The casual mention had her heart constricting, thinking about them—her crew that it took effort to remind herself was even hers; that they'd called themselves that. Ben and Yasopp. Doc, and Lucky Roo.

She wondered how they’d react to the news.

A thought gripped her then, with a sudden panic. “Promise me you won’t say anything to him?” she asked. “About the baby. I want—I want him to hear it from me.”

Garp didn’t answer, and it wasn’t fear that found her now but something else, and, “Garp,” Makino said, and was glad when her voice sounded firm, almost warning.

A reluctant mutter sounded, and she almost smiled. _“I won’t say anything,”_ Garp acquiesced. _“But what the hell do you want me to tell him, then?”_

Makino fiddled with the mouthpiece, considering the question. She tried to imagine the scenario, how it would play out, Garp having tracked them down somewhere on the Grand Line to deliver her message, but found herself coming up short. She thought she might have found the prospect funny, had the circumstances been different.

“Tell him,” she said then, worrying her lip between her teeth. “Tell him that I need to talk to him. That it’s important. That I wouldn’t be asking unless it was.”

She had the feeling that a message like that would tell him enough—that he’d know already before she’d get the chance to speak to him, but if Shanks figured it out for himself, then he did, and how he chose to handle his suspicions would be up to him. Either he called her to have it confirmed, and to talk, or…he didn’t, and she’d have all the answers she needed.

She felt how her heart hurt, just considering that possibility, but she couldn’t ignore it—she wasn’t _that_ naive, even if she knew love sometimes made you blind. But she didn’t think she’d been so blind that she’d imagined how he’d been; how he’d loved her.

“Thank you, Garp,” Makino said then, and hoped that he couldn’t tell how nervous she was, although she knew it was a futile hope, for the man who’d known her since she was a baby. “It means the world that you’d do this for me.”

Another grumble reached her over the line, but it left a wavering smile on her mouth, recognising his acceptance for what it was. And she did trust him with this, unquestionably; the man who was the closest thing she had to a father.

“Garp,” she said then, quietly. Her tears were falling now, but she couldn’t help them, or the smile. “You’ll be a grandpa again.”

She heard the laugh—the rough, startled sound of it, and her wavering smile settled, firm on her mouth, because for all his grunts and grumbles about her choices, she didn’t for a second doubt that he’d be there for her, and for her child, no matter their father. Garp was, after all, hers.

 _“God help me,”_ Garp sighed, but the words were too fond to be convincingly deprecating, and this time when she laughed it felt like something lifted off her chest with the sound, the mouthpiece steady in the cup of her palm and her other curved over the bump, and the little life she was slowly, surely coming to accept into her own.

 

—

 

After their call, she didn’t hear from Garp for several weeks.

It was impossible not to fret, thinking about it, and so she didn’t try to keep herself from doing it, allowing it instead to come in small bursts, so it wouldn’t overwhelm her completely. And she didn’t know what she was worried about, exactly. It wasn’t as though Garp would be telling him. He’d respect her wishes, she was certain of that, but if he did find a way for her to contact him, and she got the chance to tell Shanks…

She didn’t know where to begin, or what to even tell him. Did she tell him outright, without preamble? Or did she lead with a disclaimer, to soften the blow? And then there were the things she was desperate to tell him—the little things, like her stomach getting bigger, and the flutters within. The fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about whether they’d have his hair, or his laugh, or his smile.

But she couldn’t exactly lead with _that_. She’d had weeks to come to terms with it, and to grow used to the idea of a child, enough that she could imagine all those things without trouble. Shanks didn’t have that luxury, and she wouldn’t let her burgeoning excitement influence his decision. If he wanted to stay in touch, to be part of their child’s life, then that was his choice to make, and if he didn’t…

Part of her couldn’t imagine that he wouldn’t want to. Not the man she knew, that she loved more than anyone, save perhaps the little heart growing beneath hers. But it would still be difficult, his way of life taken into consideration, and the things he’d set out to do. The freedom of the open sea that he treasured so deeply.

She didn’t like to admit that she was afraid to discover how she featured into it, if he had to make the choice. She hated that she hoped her feelings weren’t wrong; hated that she couldn’t help but hope he really would put her first, if asked. It didn’t come naturally to her, that kind of wilful self-centredness, but as the flutters under her hands grew stronger and she felt just how easy the choice was, to give up everything for her unborn child, she couldn’t help but hope he’d feel the same.

Six months along now, her condition was glaringly obvious, but then she’d stopped making a conscious effort to hide it. It wasn’t like she could have managed for much longer, anyway; there were few secrets to be kept in a place as small and tight-knit as Fuschia, and it hadn’t taken long before the whole village knew.

Not many were surprised, although that itself hadn’t surprised Makino, but she’d been relieved to discover that their response was to be supportive rather than to pass judgement, even as she didn’t doubt there were a handful who had opinions on the subject, but even they were kind enough to discuss it well out of earshot.

And, of course, there were those whose delight she didn’t have to question, knowing without a doubt that it was genuine.

“It’s inside?”

Makino watched as the little hand moved across her belly, before Luffy bent down to press his ear to it. He was almost out of his chair where he’d pulled it up next to hers, and she felt his little weight where he'd pressed his body against her stomach, listening.

She saw his features where they drew together in a frown, before he raised his head to look up at her. “How did it get there?”

“Oh boy,” Ace sighed. Beside him, Sabo was grinning.

Her laugh was tender as she threaded her fingers through his hair. Shanks’ straw hat was resting against his back, attached to a string around his neck. Makino tried not to look at it. “One day, I’ll tell you,” she said, tapping his nose lightly.

It scrunched up under her fingertip, and his pout was endearingly earnest. She felt his hands against her stomach, his fingers worrying her apron. “Why not today?”

“Come on, Luffy,” Sabo said, tugging at his arm. “We said we’d help her clean the tables. She’s supposed to take it easy.”

“But _why_? She looks fine. Her stomach’s just bigger.”

Sabo herded him away, evading his relentless questions (“can the baby hear us?”, “is it a boy or a girl?”, “how is it gonna get out of there?”, “are you sure it’s a baby? maybe she just ate something, and that’s why she’s so big”), leaving Makino sitting at the table with Ace, who didn’t seem to be in a hurry to join them.

He was looking at her, seeming to consider her where she sat. He hadn’t said much since she’d told them she was going to have a baby, but the expression on his face looked curiously shrewd for a ten-year-old.

He raised his eyes from her belly, meeting hers. “It’s Red-Hair’s, isn’t it?”

Makino laced her fingers together over her stomach, hoping to still their shaking. And had the question come from any other child his age, she would have been surprised, but there were many ways in which Ace hadn’t been allowed to be a child. The kind of happy innocence Luffy flaunted without a care wasn’t given the chance to flourish when the world insisted on treating you like you were anything but innocent.

No, she wasn’t surprised Ace had put the pieces together, and so, “Yeah,” she said at length.

He continued looking at her for a long time, before his gaze shifted back to her stomach, large and round under her palms. The baby kicked, and she stroked her fingers tenderly over the curve. “He’s not here," Ace said.

Her heart constricted, recognising where that comment came from. “No,” she agreed, quietly. “He’s not.”

His brows furrowed a bit. “Does he know?”

“Not yet.”

Her answer implied another, and so he didn’t ask her if she was going to tell him. And she didn’t know what he felt about it, his expression suddenly unreadable as he continued to watch her belly in silence, as though he could figure it out if he stared at it hard enough.

He hadn’t touched it yet, seeming curiously reticent, even as both Sabo and Luffy had been eager to feel the kicks. But she watched as he reached for it now, hesitantly.

Makino didn’t move, just watched his thoughts play out across his face, but she shifted her hands, making room for his; the suggestion silent but clear.

Ace didn’t respond immediately, those small fingers twitching, an inch away from her belly, and Makino had the sudden impulse to quip that it wasn’t dangerous, but swallowed the playful urge, smiling.

Then, still with that mighty frown, his decision made with a breath for courage, he put his hand to her stomach.

It looked tiny in comparison, his knuckles covered with a thick smattering of freckles and a big, colourful band-aid wrapped around one of his fingers, dirt under his fingernails and little nicks and scars covering his skin; the kind that invoked the outdoors, untrod paths and tree-climbing and hauling fish out of the river, and every other little trouble three cheeky boys might get into in a single day.

And she thought then, looking at that little hand and feeling suddenly short of breath, that she wanted that kind of life for her own child. That kind of wild, reckless freedom.

Ace's expression remained terribly serious, but she saw when he felt the baby moving by the way his brows shot up, his features cleared of the pensive weight of his thoughts, leaving only honest surprise, and something curiously vulnerable.

He didn’t look at her, that dark, wide-eyed gaze locked on her stomach now, and the baby moving under his hand. For a moment, Makino didn’t think he was breathing.

“Here,” she said then, reaching to take his hand, to move it a little to the left, towards her hip. When he glanced at her, startled, she smiled, as though sharing a secret. “The kicking is stronger on this side. Do you feel that?" She pressed his fingers down gently. "That’s a tiny little foot.”

Ace watched, mesmerised, and when the baby gave another kick, followed the movement with his fingers.

“Does it hurt?”

She blinked, but when she found his eyes, saw the concern behind the question, and felt the warmth of affection that expanded behind her breast—along with the certainty that, whatever else the world wanted to tell him he was, he was still just a ten-year-old, easily amazed by new things.

“No,” she said, her laughter softened with warmth. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s a little weird, but I’ve grown used to it. I like it.” She winked. “It’s like they’re saying ‘hello’.”

He swallowed. "Did you—" He stopped, and for a moment, didn't look like he knew what he was asking, before he murmured, "Did you want it?"

Her smile fell, taking in the look on his face, vulnerable for a whole other reason now. And she wondered what he'd heard—if the comparison had been made to him, cruel as it was.

But she didn't have to think about the answer, and, "Yes," Makino said, honestly. "More than anything." Even if they hadn't planned for it, it didn't change the fact that their child had been conceived with love; didn't change the fact that it was _loved_ , and wanted. That she'd wanted it, before she'd even known she did.

She thought about it, sometimes—that she hadn't wanted to let him go; that she'd been greedy, those last, desperate days before Shanks had left her, when they'd barely moved from his bunk, and she'd wanted as much of him as she could get, his laughter tender and rough in the hollow of her throat and the feel of him inside her, driven so deep it still stole her breath, thinking about it. She wondered if it had truly been an accident, or if there was more to it; if the sea had answered some unspoken wish, or if that was just her penchant for fancy and fairy tales.

For a moment, Ace seemed to consider her words, and the baby in her belly. Then, his mouth firming, “I’ll protect it,” he said, the words suddenly fierce, and Makino’s eyes widened, as he raised his own to meet them. “Red-Hair doesn’t have to be here.” He looked at Luffy and Sabo across the room, the wash bucket between them, and a single rag, the delegation of which was apparently being debated. “We are.”

Her throat had closed up, and she felt dangerously close to bursting into tears, her smile trembling as she reached out to cup his cheek. “Thank you, Ace," she said, and heard how rough her voice sounded, but couldn't be bothered. "I really appreciate that.”

“Ace!” Luffy shouted, sounding put-out, a familiar whine scarping along his vowels. “How come you’re not helping?" He stuck his tongue out. " _Lazy_.”

“I’m keeping our new baby brother or sister company,” Ace threw back, matter-of-fact, even as he stole a glance at Makino, as though for confirmation that he wasn't out of line in saying it.

Before she could answer, or at least swallow the lump in her throat so she could find her voice to do so, Luffy’s eyes lit up, and then he was shoving Ace out of the way, to reach for her stomach.

"Oi, Luffy," Ace snapped. "You've already had your turn!"

Ignoring him, Luffy's eyes were wide where they sought hers, and his voice when he spoke sounded almost too quiet for his usual volume, small and wondering as he asked her, “We get to be its brothers?”

Makino felt as her smile widened, no longer wavering as she took in them all, having flocked around her stomach again, their earlier offer of assistance happily forgotten with a new, more exciting prospect before them. “I’d be very happy if you would,” she said. She rubbed her hand over her belly; felt out that little foot. “I think this little one would be, too.”

Luffy’s grin stretched across his whole face. “That means I get to be a big brother!” He grinned up at her. “And that makes us family, too, Ma-chan!”

This time the tears came, regardless of her stubborn attempts at holding them back. “Yeah,” she said, her laughter soft and thick. “I guess it does.”

“You’ll be the mom,” Luffy declared, seeming pleased at this realisation. “Dadan can, too, I guess.” He placed his hands on her stomach again, pressing down gently, before a frown dipped between his brows, and he raised his eyes to hers, as though he’d suddenly thought of something. “Wait—who’s the dad?”

Ace flicked the straw hat around his neck. “Who do you think?”

It took him a second, before he looked at Makino, his eyes as round as she’d ever seen them go. “ _Shanks_?” She didn’t know if he sounded shocked or delighted. Possibly both. “But _how_?” he asked, looking at her stomach. “Did he put it there?”

Makino coughed, startled, but, “We’ll tell you later,” Sabo said, smile a little bashful when she pursed her mouth in tender warning.

Luffy pouted. “Why can’t you just tell me now? Why is it a secret?”

“We’re not going to tell you anything if you keep nagging, Luffy," Ace said, and punctuated the remark with a headlock, but Luffy only scrambled out of his grip, the subject anything but dropped.

“But how come you both know? Who told you? Was it Dadan? That’s not fair!”

“It’s an older brother thing," Sabo said, wisely. "You’ll get it once it’s your turn.”

Their bickering continued, an ever-welcome sound, hearing the laughter in it—the good-natured teasing that warmed her heart; that made it easy to imagine another little shape among them, and three pairs of hands reaching, to steady and lift and and carry, and eager voices encouraging forth a laugh, or little feet to walk.

She looked out across her bar; at the empty tables and chairs surrounding her. Quiet didn’t sit comfortably in her establishment anymore, hadn’t done so since Shanks had left it. Even now it rebelled against it, the room seeming to greedily swallow up the boys’ voices, relishing in the unabashed loudness of it.

She curved her hand over the bump, the little shape within quiet but for the flutters rising to meet her touch, but it wouldn’t be that way for long. In a few months there’d be noise; an entirely new and unique sort, different than anything she’d ever known, but when she thought about it, Makino thought it couldn’t come soon enough—felt suddenly desperate with the need to know it, and the little heart who’d make it.

And it wouldn’t be the worst thing, she thought, a small smile finding her, imagining quick little feet running after her across the floor, and tiny hands gripping her skirt, requesting her attention. A loud little laugh, and that wide, wonderful smile she was trying to hard to hold on to in her memory. Even if it changed nothing—even if he couldn’t come back yet or at all, it wouldn’t be the worst thing, having a small part of him. A child that was his—that was theirs, as hard it still was to believe, even feeling the gentle movements within her.

And she knew then, watching the three boys squabbling over who got to touch her belly next, and who’d be the best older brother, that however many uncertainties she still had regarding her future, and Shanks, she knew one thing with staggering certainty.

That their child would be loved, and fiercely.

 

—

 

Dadan stopped by the next day.

“Heard from Luffy that he’s going to be a big brother,” she said, easing her weight onto one of the barstools. It wasn’t with surprise that she said it, but then Makino had already shared the news with her some time ago, long before her pregnancy had become common knowledge around the village. “Ace and Sabo, too. I hope you’re prepared to commit to this, because I doubt they’re ever going to let it go.”

Makino smiled, already reaching for the bottle of brandy she kept under the bar for Dadan’s visits, more frequent now than they had been. “I am,” she said, settling her hand over the bump as she put the bottle on the counter. “It’s nice that they’re excited. And I’ll appreciate the company when the time comes.”

She didn't say that she was lonely; didn't like admitting it out loud, even as she feared it was evident on her face, as bright all her other feelings.

At the mention, Dadan dropped her eyes to her belly, lingering there a moment, before she raised them back to hers. “You told Red-Hair yet?”

Makino considered the bottle of brandy, worrying the label where a corner had pulled loose, the glue old and faded. “No,” she said, as she made to pour it into a glass. She observed the colour, a deep, reddish brown, and thought of his hair. She very pointedly didn't reach for the anchor resting in the dip of her throat. “I’m still waiting to hear back from Garp.”

Dadan snorted. “You sure he won’t just kill him on the spot? That he hasn’t already? Maybe that's why you haven't heard anything.”

Despite the nature of her thoughts, her smile was quick, startled, although she refrained from pointing out that the thought had in fact crossed her mind, before she'd dismissed it as ridiculous. “I’m hoping he’ll show _some_ restraint.”

“This is _Garp,_ you realise.” At her enduring look, Dadan grunted. “Then again, it’s you. If anyone could convince that man to show restraint, it’d be you.”

Makino felt as her smile softened, hearing the things the remark implied. And she felt the same, every time her baby kicked; the unshakeable certainty that she’d do anything for that little life.

“Makino,” Dadan said then. She shifted her weight on the barstool, and Makino thought she looked a little awkward. And she still had her gaze fixed on her stomach, and Makino wondered for a moment how she looked—if _pregnant_ was the only thing that people thought when they saw her now, or if there was something else to be found in their looks; something that wasn’t immediately pity.

“I’m not good with kids,” Dadan continued, gruffly. “You’d think I would be by now, but I’m still at a loss, most days. I’m winging it with those boys, to be honest. But if you need anything—” She stopped, and cleared her throat. “You'll let me know.”

There was something in her voice as she said it, something rough but starkly earnest, not a trace of awkwardness in the offer despite her earlier fidgeting, and Makino smiled, and had to sob around a laugh when the tears came, spilling over her cheeks before she could reach to wipe them away. “Oh, damn it.”

It didn't do much good, and through the blur she found Dadan grinning. “Cussing now? That part of the pregnancy gig?”

Makino grinned, but didn’t bother to try wiping the tears, letting them fall freely instead. “Maybe. Or it might just be the fact that I burst into tears at nothing these days. It's getting a little old.” But even saying it, her smile persisted. And she didn’t mind the tears, not really. She didn’t mind any of it, the aches and discomforts or the odd cravings, happy to experience it now that she’d rooted her heart in her new future, whatever it brought. She had people around her, people who cared for her, who wanted to help rather than judge her for her decisions. She had a _family_.

And it wasn’t the first time that she found herself thinking, with a strange weight of certainty, that she could do this.

“Thank you, Dadan,” she said then, and hoped her gratitude conveyed, her hand splayed over her belly where the baby kicked, seeming eager to announce its presence, as though to not be forgotten, although she thought, with that fierce, breathless conviction that still took her by surprise, that she couldn’t imagine even the possibility of doing that, her life forever changed but better for it. She believed that more than anything. All her love for her unborn child, and for its father…Makino didn’t think she could forget it for even a second; that she'd ever want to.

“Refill?” she asked, holding up the bottle.

Dadan’s mouth tugged upwards, as she held out her glass. “Kinda wishing you could have one yourself?” she asked, and Makino laughed.

“Oh, you have no idea how much.”

 

—

 

Another week passed, and she still hadn’t heard anything from Garp, although at the end of her sixth month now, Makino was beginning to worry the words she’d have to tell Shanks weren’t 'you’re going to be a father', but 'you are a father. Surprise!'

Okay, so maybe not exactly like _that_ , but her worry these days revolved less around delivering the news, and more around delivering their child before she'd even had the chance to tell him about it.

"Relax," Suzume said, when Makino voiced her concerns. She'd taken the news of her pregnancy in stride—had taken one look at her and shrugged, saying 'it happens'. All things considered (Woop Slap hadn't spoken to her for a full twenty minutes after she'd broken the news to him, opting instead to glare her into submission, which hadn't exactly succeeded—she wasn't as meek as she'd been once), it had been one of the better reactions, but Makino wasn't about to tell her that.

"It's not like Red would make it back for the birth, anyway," she added. "Maybe it's better this way. There won't be any uncertainty when you tell him. Kid's already popped, he's a father, child support will be accepted in treasure or booze, preferably the latter. What?" she asked, catching Makino's look. "It's Red."

Makino didn't like admitting that she had a point—at least about _one_ of those things. And maybe it was better, waiting until after the fact, except that she couldn't quite convince herself.

She wondered sometimes how Shanks would have been, had he known about it, or if he'd been there with her through it all—if he would have loved her changes as she did, and kissed her growing stomach; if he would have been excited, or worried, an anchor when she needed one, or maybe she'd be his.

She fiddled with the one around her neck, feeling out the shape as her thoughts circled back around to where she'd begun.

She decided then, that if she hadn’t heard anything in another week, she’d call Garp and ask. And maybe that was selfish, when she’d already asked the world of him, but with every day that passed and every new little thing she learned about her child, that she couldn’t imagine _not_ knowing about, she felt the growing need to tell him—a genuine desire to do it now, more than something she felt she had to do. He deserved to know, all those little things, however mundane they might seem to anyone else; the way their baby slept, and moved, and felt. She thought, suddenly certain of the fact, of how she remembered him, that Shanks was the kind of man who’d _want_ to know those things.

One week, she decided. She would ask this of Garp, when she'd never asked for anything else.

 

—

 

But it would be more than a week before she talked to either of them again.

 

—

 

She’d grown accustomed to being woken in the middle of the night, either from her morning sickness, the sudden and acute need to use the bathroom, or by a small, cheeky kick against her hipbone, stirring her from sleep. But it wasn’t her own body that roused her this time, but a sound—a blood-curdling scream, reaching under the surface to drag her out of sleep.

At first she didn’t understand what had done it—couldn’t wrap her sleep-addled mind around what it was she was even hearing, and it took her a moment to resurface fully, and to come awake enough to realise that it was the middle of the night, and then, the next realisation quick in following, that somewhere outside, there were people screaming.

She was alert within seconds, her heart lurching into her throat as the sound continued, ripe with terror, and she realised with a start that she smelled something burning, the scent drifting to her on the cold sea breeze from her half-open window. Was there a fire?

Scrambling for the edge of her bed, she was mindful of her stomach as she made for the door to her bedroom, barefoot and in nothing but her nightdress but without the mind to think about locating shoes, or anything else, acutely aware of the very real danger a fire posed in a village of mostly wooden houses.

The screams hadn’t stopped, seeming only to grow louder as she moved gingerly down the stairs, and fully awake now, Makino realised what was bothering her—that among the familiar presences she could feel, the village she’d grown up in, that she _knew_ , every heart and soul in it, there were some she didn’t recognise, even as she recognised their intent, their feelings bared to her searching, so loud they might as well have screamed them—greed and arrogance. _Violence_ , so pungent she was surprised she couldn't smell it on the air with the smoke.

And she knew then, that it wasn’t just a regular fire; suspected even before she reached the bottom of the steps and caught a glimpse of the street outside, the people running past, just what else it might be, finding all the warnings she’d been raised on coming back to her, and with a vengeance.

_Pirate raid._

Her heart thundered in her throat; Makino felt it in her mouth, and she nearly stumbled the last step, her hands shaking where they gripped the banister. She forced herself to breathe through her nose, to stay calm and to not let her fears run away with her, not before she knew what she was up against. She'd been here before; had felt these feelings, had thought these thoughts, even if the situation had been different, and the crew, who'd only brought laughter into her bar and her life.

She thought of Shanks then, desperately—thought of the protective warmth of his presence that had seemed to always welcome her to hide in it, but he was too long gone to protect her now, or their child, and Makino didn't know if she grasped the memory for comfort or for strength, but it helped unfreeze her knees from where they'd locked together, pushing her forward.

She’d just reached the bottom of the stairs when the bat-wing doors swung open, admitting a pair of men—none of whom she recognised, not by their appearances or their presences, and she watched as they halted in their tracks at the sight of her.

There was a moment where they just stared at her, standing by the bar where her heels had rooted themselves to the floor, before the younger of the two grinned, the sight sending a chill down her back, even before his eyes swept across her once, appreciatively, and he said, “Looks like this stop wasn’t a complete waste, after all.”

“No,” his partner mused. He was older, his greying hair drawn back in a sleek ponytail, and his expression didn’t reveal as much as his companion's did. His eyes did the same, assessing sweep, lingering only a little longer on her pregnant stomach, and Makino realised belatedly that she was in only her nightdress, and didn’t need to read everything in the look on his face to know what he was probably thinking.

In her panic, she glanced towards the bar, and the pistol hidden there; the one Yasopp had given her. And she realised her mistake a second too late, from the way the older man followed her gaze.

He’d intercepted her before she could make a lunge towards it, reaching for her hands, and with panic shoving up her throat, making her reckless, she forgot to think as she scrambled to evade his grip, to not let him touch her, stumbling back as he made to pull her forward, and with her ankle folding beneath her she didn’t even have a chance reach for purchase as she fell.

She knocked her head on the bar so hard she saw stars, and the dark claimed her between breaths.

 

—

 

She woke, painfully, to voices.

“Careful so you don't drop her,” someone snapped. She couldn’t pinpoint where the voice was coming from, but had the uncomfortable sense that she was being moved, a jarring sensation that sent a blinding pain shooting through her head with every step. “She’s pregnant. You know what that means? She’s worth a fucking fortune.”

“Why, though?” asked another voice, sounding much nearer. “Wouldn’t it just put someone off buying her if she’s got a kid in tow?”

“Idiot. You clearly haven’t been in this business long if you think they’d let her keep it. It’s the kid who’s the real prize. Rich nobles who can’t reproduce on their own, they’ll pay good bucks for a healthy brat.”

“Christ, that’s messed up.”

Laughter, cold and hard. “Right? But it pays like nothing else. Come on—we’re putting her in the hold with the others. I’ll send the doctor down to have a look at her, make sure she’s in good health. No use wasting cargo space for a sick brat, even if the mother’s pretty. The best this village had to offer by a long shot. Worst case, we’ll keep her and toss the kid overboard once it’s born. So get moving while I round up the others, and see if there’s anyone else worth bringing. And if you drop her, I’m coming for your ass!”

“R-roger that, Boss!”

 _Boss,_ she thought, detached. Something about the title struck a chord, even through her disorientation. Somehow, she wanted to latch on to it, to remember where she'd heard it, but before she could, she was lost.

 

—

 

The next time she woke, she’d forgotten the first.

Blinking her eyes heavily, there was a long moment where she could do nothing but stare up at the ceiling as she slowly came to, although even as she did, something felt off, but she couldn’t put her finger on what.

There was a sound of something creaking—wood? A slow groan rolled through the floor, the walls, and she had the uncanny feeling that the room was swaying. She smelled saltwater, and something worse than that, something the brine couldn’t mask completely, and she wrinkled her nose, and had to keep from gagging.

Turning her head to locate the source of the smell, she winced, a pained sound escaping as her head protested the movement.

“Makino,” said a voice, somewhere above her head. She felt a hand touching hers and started, and when she lifted her eyes she found a woman looking at her, her brows furrowed with concern. She looked familiar, although she couldn’t place where she’d seen her before.

“Is she awake?” someone else asked; another woman’s voice, with a gently lilting accent. She tried to remember where she’d heard that kind of accent before, but couldn’t. It took effort just to think, and it hurt her head so much she had to close her eyes.

“She seems to be drifting in and out,” said the first voice. “She opened her eyes, but I don’t think she recognised me.”

“Did they give her something? Is that why she’s so out of it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so, but I’ll ask when they send their physician down next.”

She tried to murmur something, but didn’t know what she was asking, and felt too tired to enunciate the words properly, feeling how they slurred on her tongue.

The hand in hers left it, splaying over her stomach, before it lifted to touch her brow, the weight of it suddenly comforting. She allowed it to push her under, and offered no resistance when it did, letting go of the throbbing pain in her head with a sigh as she sank back into blissful nothingness.

 

—

 

It was a dream that woke her next, jerking her awake, and her body halfway off the bunk she’d been sleeping on.

Her heart was hammering in her chest, and her shift was soaked through with sweat, clinging to her back as she bent forward to catch her breath. And she couldn’t place her whereabouts at once, still coming out of the dream, although she was losing her grip on it by the second. A room full of crowded tables, and a hundred voices raised in song, a single laugh rising louder than the din, and strong arms around her—

“Hey,” murmured a voice beside her, and she felt someone touching her back through her wet shift. “It’s okay. Just breathe.”

She did, filling her lungs until they ached, before pushing it out slowly through her mouth. It helped calm her a bit, her shoulders losing some of their tension as she bent forward, until her brow nearly touched her knees where she’d pulled them up, although it felt difficult for some reason, bending her body that way.

“Makino-san?” the voice asked then, but whoever they were addressing, they didn’t respond. She was becoming increasingly aware of the number of people around her. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel them, somehow; could count them. Five—no, ten. Twenty. Thirty-two, altogether. Who were all these people?

Touching her fingers to her stomach, she paused, opening her eyes as she looked down, and took in the size of it where it swelled, round and heavy under her thin shift.

She stared at it for several seconds, uncomprehending.

“Makino-san?”

That name again. Were they talking to her?

“Who?” she asked, momentarily distracted from the sight of her stomach, and the realisation of what it implied.

She looked at the woman who’d been speaking to her, kneeling by the bunk she was sitting on, her hand resting on her back. “That’s what she called you,” she said. She was young, not even thirty. Her clothes looked worn and filthy, like she hadn’t changed them in weeks, her brown hair matted and greasy where she’d pulled it back from her face, although her eyes were bright and alert; a clear, piercing blue where they bore into hers.

“The woman they brought aboard with you,” she explained. Her expression turned suddenly pained, like it hurt her to speak the words. “They came to take her away, yesterday. Said something about easing the weight of the cargo.”

Cargo? She didn’t understand what she was saying, and couldn’t seem to keep her focus long enough to examine her own confusion. Every time she tried, it slipped between her fingers.

Her head hurt, a persistent throbbing that squeezed against her skull, as though there wasn’t enough room for the pain. Fumbling for the back of her neck through her hair, she felt the bump there, the touch causing her to suck a sharp hiss through her teeth. She must have hit it at some point. Maybe that was why something felt off, and why she couldn’t seem to get a good grasp of her surroundings, or what was happening.

There were more people talking now, murmuring between themselves, and she was uncomfortably aware of how many there were, and that she didn’t recognise any of them. They seemed to crowd her mind, filling it even as she felt like she didn’t have any more room. She barely had space to _think_.

Blinking her eyes against the dim light, she peered up into a cramped cabin, and she might have mistaken it for any other room, if it hadn’t been for how it swayed.

She was aboard a ship.

And she noticed then, frowning, that there were several compartments within what looked to be a sizeable hold, filled with people, observing her through what she saw were rows upon rows of metal bars, separating them into groups, like cattle tucked into snug little slots.

She realised suddenly that she couldn’t remember how she’d gotten there, or where she was even going.

And fully awake and aware now, she realised something else, something that wiped the remnants of disorientation clean from her mind, even as it left something far worse, and that had a startled keen leaving her, as she scrambled for an answer but came up distressingly short.

 _Who_ was she?

 

—

 

Garp considered the map before him, and the sheaf of paper with the coordinates, trapped under an empty tumbler. His third drink since he’d been given the note, although it hadn’t helped make things any easier.

He’d tracked down Red-Hair’s crew in Paradise. It had taken some effort, at least without alerting his superiors to what he was up to, but now that he had a course set and a destination in mind, he found himself hesitating.

He didn’t know how to even approach the man. Not when he had to continually fight down the recurring and violent urge to wring his neck. And he hadn’t the faintest idea of how he’d go about arranging this, at least not without revealing the one thing he’d promised Makino he wouldn’t let slip.

He looked at the map again. Less than a day’s voyage, if he could count on them to stay put long enough for him to reach them. All he needed was one word with Red-Hair. What he chose to do after that was up to him, although Garp hoped for Red-Hair's sake that he’d make the right decision—for Makino’s, too, given that she wanted him alive. The brat should only count his luck that that was the case.

But in considering what Red-Hair would do, Garp remembered Roger; the damp prison cell and the pride that had defied it, bright as the grin on his face, and _I’m going to be a father, Garp._ And he remembered Makino, just a few months ago, her decision made and her chin raised as she told him, resolute, _I love him_.

He needed another drink.

One of the Den Den Mushi on his desk brought him out of his thoughts, springing awake with a loud chirrup, and Garp frowned at it. It was his private line. Only one person used that, and Makino didn’t call him often. Not unless it was important, anyhow, and Garp remembered her last call well enough.

He felt a flicker of sudden worry, recognising that in her condition there were a number of things that could go wrong, that would require she call and tell him. Then again, it had been several weeks since they’d last talked. Maybe she was simply calling to check if he really was going to do as he’d promised, although that kind of impatience seemed out of character for her, enduring to a fault, and never one to demand anything, least of all from those who deserved it.

Finally, he answered the call, and hoped his voice didn’t sound as wary as he felt. “Yeah?”

There was a long beat. Then, _“Garp,”_ came Dadan’s voice, and Garp blinked, caught off guard, not just by the caller but the sharpness of her voice, and the grief that grated along it, sounding hoarser than her usual smoker’s rasp.

“Dadan?” And suddenly, there was a whole number of possibilities presenting themselves, each one worse than the last; things that could have gone wrong, that would make Dadan sound like that. Something with Ace, or Luffy—

Dadan’s silence was damning, and it didn’t help the sudden dread he felt, looking at the Den Den Mushi, and the wrought, furious expression staring back at him, as Dadan told him, gravely,

_“You need to sit down for this.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So don’t discount the possibility that I might also write a happy AU where Makino has her baby and she grows up alongside Luffy and Ace, and Shanks sends her ridiculous presents and is altogether the best long-distance dad there is, because I’m entirely predictable, but for now please bear with my shenanigans.


	2. the forgotten ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments on the first chapter!! Seriously, you guys are the reason I've punched out another 10K+ chapter for this fic in less than a week.

They were slavers.

She turned the word over in her head, sitting on the cramped bunk she’d woken on, the ship’s tilting and swaying nudging her body gently, although there was nothing calming about the movements, or the sea beneath, leaving her battling the constant urge to be sick all over the planks.

She didn’t know how much time had passed since she’d come to; didn’t even know what time of day it was. There were no portholes in the hold, only the cramped compartments and the people in them, huddled together in the dark. Only a handful of oil lamps kept the shadows from swallowing them whole, although it wouldn’t have made much of a difference if they had. She could still feel them all somehow, even with her eyes closed. Thirty-two souls, drenched in sweat and fear and desperation.

It made her dizzy focusing on it, and so she tried to think about something else, anything else than what was happening around her, even as she kept coming back to the same thing.

Slavers. Which made _her_ —

The bowels of the ship ached and groaned, the creaking of the timbers seeming always to bring her back whenever she tried to escape into her own mind, even as there was nothing to escape _to._ There was nothing to keep her occupied, no pleasant memories she could seek to distract herself. She couldn’t even think of an _un_ pleasant memory. She had nothing, not even her own self.

 _Makino_ , she thought, gripping the name like a lifeline. They’d said her name was Makino.

She didn’t know if it was in truth, but it wasn’t like she had any alternatives to choose from, and it was better than having nothing, so she took it; claimed the small offering greedily, and didn’t care if it wasn’t her real name, so long that it would take away some of the emptiness she felt within her.

She couldn’t remember.  _Why_ couldn’t she remember?

Touching her fingertips to the back of her head, she traced the outline of the bump there. The blinding headache she’d woken to had receded to a dull throbbing, but just lightly brushing her fingers over the spot brought it back, and she blinked her eyes against the pain that burst through the back of her skull.

She wondered if it had happened by accident, or if someone had done it to her. No matter how hard she tried to recall the events before she’d woken up—the whole life she must have lived, gone now—she couldn’t. All she had was the physical evidence before her.

She was young, they’d told her, when she’d asked. Twenty, one had suggested, and they’d all agreed. And if they were right, that was twenty years she couldn’t remember, no matter how many times she turned her hands over, or felt out the shape of her body. There were no mirrors in the hold, and so she had no idea what she looked like aside from what she could see and touch.

She was small—tiny in a way that made her for a second wonder if they’d been mistaken, assuming her to be as old as twenty. She had pale freckles on her arms and shoulders, and her hair was dark, touching the edges of her vision, the length of it cutting off just beneath her jaw. The soft callouses in her palms and the short nails suggested work of some kind, and she had no major scars to speak of, just a few small ones on her hands, which looked like a child's hands.

And she was pregnant.

Her fingers twitched, but looking down at her stomach, she didn’t reach out to touch it. It curved under her shift, pronounced in a way that left little doubt of what it suggested.

She tried to keep her breathing even, to not think about it too closely, but even refraining from touching it didn’t stop her from feeling the baby’s movements within her.

She thought she was going to be sick, but for an entirely different reason, this time.

“Makino-san?”

With her eyes shut, it took a second to realise she was the one being addressed, and she opened them to find the woman who’d been there when she’d woken, kneeling by the compartment’s only bunk, which seemed to have been allotted to Makino alone, from how they'd all refused her efforts to take turns using it.

There were six women in their section, most of them girls Makino’s age, but the woman addressing her now seemed to be the oldest. She’d given her space after she’d come to, taking turns to sit with the other girls. Makino had heard them call her _North_.

“Here,” she said, and when Makino looked at her it was to find her holding out her hand, her palm cupped gently, as though to give her something. “You were wearing it when they first brought you on board, but they take our valuables if they can,” she explained, opening her hand to reveal a necklace. A thin silver chain pooled in the cup of her palm, attached to a tiny silver anchor.

“With new arrivals, we try to hide away whatever we can before they can get their hands on it,” she said. She proffered the anchor. “They’ve already searched you, and it’s small enough that they might not notice if you put it on now.”

Makino looked at the anchor, feeling detached, but saw how her fingers shook when she reached for it.

It _was_ small, and delicate in a way that suggested it wouldn’t take much pressure to bend the shank in half. It didn’t look very old, the silver polished and gleaming, which meant it was either new, or well cared-for.

Looking at it, she tried to will herself to remember; to find something in it that would give her a clue as to who she was—a glimpse of who’d given it to her, or its significance. Born slaves didn’t wear jewellery, she didn’t think, which meant she hadn’t been born to this life, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make herself see anything but a pretty necklace.

But it was _something_. Like her name, it was something that connected her to who she was—who she’d been, before she’d woken on a slave ship with no memory. And when she had nothing else, it was everything.

“Thank you,” Makino said, closing her fingers around the necklace. The metal felt warm to the touch, and even if it weighed nothing, she drew some strength from the contact. Something physical to hold on to, which even her name couldn’t give her.

North offered a smile, although it was a sombre thing, one that looked like it had been used for similar interactions, and had gotten comfortable on her face. Makino wondered how long she’d been aboard. Her clothes suggested weeks, even as her bright eyes seemed openly defiant to the suggestion.

She watched as those eyes swept downwards, to settle on her stomach.

And here was another clue, as physical as the little anchor; maybe even more so, although compared to the necklace, Makino felt less inclined to hold on to this. She was a good few months along, judging by the size of it, but like the rest of her forgotten life, it brought her more questions than answers.

She was young to be pregnant. And there was no wedding ring on her finger, or even the suggestion there’d ever been one. That itself said more than enough, even as it was by no means a confirmation of anything.

“Do you know—” she began, but had to clear her throat just to ask the question. “Do you know where they found me?”

She realised how it sounded, but couldn’t make herself utter the word ‘captured’.

Those piercing eyes softened a bit, and North shook her head. “I haven’t seen the outside of this hold since they put me in it. I couldn’t even tell you which of the blues we’re in.”

Makino nodded, although she didn’t know what she meant, but didn’t like admitting it; the things she felt she should know, like what she meant by ‘blues’. There were some things she didn’t need explaining, certain bits of information and knowledge that she knew, almost instinctively; that even her memory loss hadn’t taken away from her. She knew they were on a ship, and what that meant, but couldn’t remember the name of a single ocean to suggest where in the world they might be. She knew what slavers were, knew that slavery was wrong, but couldn’t remember if the world thought the same.

“I’ve heard,” North began then, “that they have outposts where they collect us, or trade us to other ships. Safely out of the World Government’s eyesight, of course, and they disguise their trafficking as other things. Smuggling. Trade. All of it illegal, but if it’s mild enough, they’re usually left to do their business in peace. The navy can’t strike down on every single smuggling ring in the world. Not with all the pirates they have to deal with.”

World Government. Navy. _Pirates_. It both explained a lot, and nothing at all.

“Other times,” North continued, and Makino glanced up to find her eyes far away, something acutely hurtful flashing in them, before they shifted back to hers, “they’ll raid a village they happen upon. Usually if it’s small enough, or far enough from a marine base. And even if it isn’t, a missing person or two doesn’t warrant interference from the navy. It’s just the way of the world, in this age.” She looked towards the other girls, huddled together by the bulkhead, fast asleep. Makino wondered where they’d come from; if they’d been collected, or captured.

North looked back at her, something hard entering her expression. “They take the ones they know will sell. Healthy boys for manual labour, or pretty girls for servitude. You’re young, and beautiful.” Her eyes dropped to her stomach. “And you’re pregnant. A healthy human newborn will fetch a high price at an auction house.”

She might have latched onto the phrase ' _human_ newborn' if she hadn’t been seized by the last half of that remark.

_Auction house._

North was still looking at her stomach, before she raised her gaze back up. “I’m sorry,” she said, and there was sympathy there, even as it was a hard sort; the kind of sympathy that resisted coddling, but still couldn’t help itself. “I know this is a lot to take in, and I know it sounds callous, but keeping you in the dark won’t do you any favours. You need to prepare yourself for what’s coming.”

Absently, Makino nodded, although she didn’t know what she was supposed to feel. Fear, maybe, at the prospect that they’d take the baby away, but even thinking about it, she couldn’t seem to dredge up the worry she probably should be feeling.

Uncurling her fingers from where she’d clenched them together, she touched her belly, and thought of the child inside; the little kicks she could feel, which kept dragging her attention back when it drifted, as though to remind her it was there, although she couldn’t exactly forget, even if she’d forgotten everything else.

She tried to look within herself, to search for some kind of _feeling;_ any emotion that wasn’t complete detachment.

_Whose child are you?_

She had no idea if it had a father somewhere—someone who was looking for her. She couldn’t remember how it had been conceived, didn’t know if it had been consensual, or just the opposite.

But…North had said that newborns fetched a high prize. The thought struck her that the father might be one of the slavers. If she’d come from one of those outposts; if she’d been _intended_ for this—

She had to hold back from being sick this time, clenching her eyes shut, even as there were no memories to shut out, only her imagination. But if she had been raped, maybe it was a good thing that she couldn’t recall it, or the man who’d done it. Even if there was no one who missed her, who was looking for her, maybe her memory loss was a blessing, if her life up until this point had been anything like what she found reflected in the hollow-eyed gazes looking back at her from the other slaves.

She wished suddenly that she had someone to ask, who might give her some answers. She’d take anything.

“The woman they brought on board with me,” Makino said then, looking up at North. “Who was she?”

But North only shook her head. “I didn’t get the chance to talk to her before they took her away. She knew you, but I don’t know if you were family. You didn’t look alike, so maybe not.” She paused, and seemed to withdraw within herself, before she said, “She was pretty, but she was older than the rest of us. In her forties, maybe. If they need to get rid of someone, they tend to start with the older ones.”

Then, her brows knitting, “I think…her name was Yara. That, I remember. She stayed with you while you slept. It looked like you were friends.”

Makino frowned, mouth shaping the syllables as she repeated the name in her mind, but there was no spark of recognition. She shook her head, and murmured, “I don’t remember anyone by that name.”

North touched her hand where she’d pressed it over her belly. Strong and long-fingered, her own dwarfed it. Her smile was hard, but not without kindness. “It might come back to you. Give it a little time.”

 _Time_ , Makino thought. It was the only thing they had, with nothing else to do but sit and wait.

She looked up at the oil lamp where it swung back and forth, the movement sending shadows dancing over the bulkheads. She wondered what time it was. “How long do you think they’ll keep us here?” She drew a breath, and it was an effort making herself speak the words. “You mentioned an auction house.”

North was silent, and at Makino’s questioning look, said, “They haven’t told us anything, but I’ve heard some of the others talking. About where we’re going.” She looked at her, and even with her bright eyes, the hopelessness in them had Makino's heart sinking in her chest.

“They’re taking us to the Grand Line.”

 

—

 

Ace listened as Dadan slammed the mouthpiece down, heard the ragged sob that spoke louder than even her anger, before the sound of something being thrown against the wall shattered the deathly quiet, although he barely even flinched.

The fire had burned low in the hearth, greedy shadows creeping in from the far corners of the cabin, reaching towards them where they sat huddled in the loft. Luffy had cried himself to sleep some time ago, exhausted, but Ace remained awake, unable to close his eyes. His grandfather’s voice was still ringing in his ears, and Dadan’s, the call seeming to have imprinted itself on the quiet.

_You find her, Garp. I don’t care if you have to turn this whole goddamn ocean over to do it!_

“What do you think will happen to her?” Sabo asked then, the question dragging Ace out of his thoughts. His brother hadn’t spoken in a while, and his voice sounded hoarse, like he’d been crying, although the red lining his eyes was already evidence enough. When Ace looked at him, it was to find him watching Luffy, before Sabo shifted his gaze to his. “Do you think she’s—”

“No,” Ace cut him off, and tried not to wince at how sharp the word sounded, but Sabo didn’t even flinch. He breathed through his nose, and tried again, even as it hurt speaking the words calmly, like he wanted to scream instead. “Dadan said they took her. That they were slavers. They wouldn’t kill her.”

He didn’t actually know if that was the case, but he’d heard the others talking, speculating—had listened to Dadan’s call with Garp, and they didn’t seem to think Makino was dead. Not if they’d taken her with them.

It still felt like a bad dream—like he could wake up tomorrow and go down to the village with Sabo and Luffy, and she'd be at the bar. He'd take pains to greet her properly, like she'd taught him, and she'd smile and laugh and sneak him an extra helping of eggs with a wink, like it was their little secret.

They'd taken to visiting her a few times a week. It was at Luffy's suggestion that they'd started.

 _She looks sad sometimes_ , he'd told them, worrying the straw hat on his head. _I dunno why, but I don't like it. We should try to make her laugh. Ace, try to be polite, that always works!_

Of course, Ace knew why she'd been so sad. The news that she was going to have a baby had only confirmed it, but he hadn't needed it to recognise _longing_ when he saw it.

Sabo fell silent. Ace listened for Dadan’s rummaging, the grumbling mutters that usually chased them off to sleep, but heard nothing, and no one else spoke a word. The quiet seemed suddenly oppressive, like the cabin was too small for it. Part of him wanted to shout, just to break the silence.

“What about the baby?” Sabo asked then, so softly Ace barely heard him.

His hands tightened where they gripped his arms, leaving white imprints on his skin, but no matter how hard he thought about it, he couldn’t find an answer to that question. He didn’t know anything about babies, other than what Makino had told him, but he knew it was still a few months before it would be born. And she had to take it easy, he remembered. She had to be careful, and not stress too much, or work too hard. For the baby.

He didn’t think the slavers would care about that, and felt furious tears pressing against his eyes, and clenched his jaw to suffocate the scream that he felt rising in his throat.

She didn’t deserve it. Out of everyone in the whole world, she was the last person who deserved something like this. It shouldn’t happen to someone that good—to someone who was that kind. It wasn’t _fair._

“Gramps will find them,” Ace said then, looking at Luffy, curled on his side between them and sleeping so heavily he wasn’t even making noise. He watched the straw hat where it rested against his back, rising and falling with his breaths.

He looked at Sabo, who’d been watching the same thing. “Or Red-Hair will.”

He thought of Makino, and the soft hands that had only ever touched him with gentleness, as though he was someone worthy of it. She was the kindest person he knew.

His fingers shook, thinking about the little baby who’d kicked against his hand, and he swallowed the shout back down, his voice rough when he spoke the vow into the quiet.

“And if they don’t, _I_ will.”

 

—

 

The island was perfect.

Wading through the warm surf, Shanks observed the clear water, the sand beneath the surface sinking under his sandals as tiny schools of brightly coloured fish skittered away from the small disturbance to their otherwise untouched sanctuary.

It brought out a small smile, and the sense of contentment he’d been chasing for years; the only treasure he really cared about, but pirates covet different things, and this had always been his.

They were over halfway across Paradise, but they’d made camp for a few days, charmed by the peace and quiet the little islet had offered upon disembarking. His wasn’t a crew that hurried anywhere, and it had been nice, given their voyage so far, to just take a few days to breathe. The sea wasn’t going anywhere, and even if he’d sailed it once before there were still new things for him to experience, and to learn.

And anyway—he'd always been of the mind that the greatest discoveries often happened in the places where you’d least expect them.

Shielding his eyes with the flat of his palm, he watched the beach where it curled along the shoreline of the cove. The sand looked almost white, and the colours almost too bright to believe—the reds and the greens and the blue of the sky, where the sun fairly dripped with heat.

His ship lay anchored just off the coast, idling in the sunlight, his crew having made camp further inland, and it was just him and the sea now, a solitude he sometimes indulged in, although it wasn’t with the same ease that he sought it now, the ache that sat just behind his ribcage only emphasised by the quiet, which was nothing like hers, and which only made him long for that, and the girl it belonged to.

Not for the first time, he wondered what it would have been like, had she accepted his offer to come with him. He thought he would have loved showing her places like this—the busy, sprawling towns of the more populated islands, too, but privately, Shanks thought he would have liked this the most. Just the two of them, and a remote beach under a naked sky where he could mortify her by stripping down, and try to convince her to join him.

A sigh, dragging from him with a laugh as he brushed his fingers over the kerchief wrapped around Gryphon’s hilt. “You’re an idiot.” But his grin had come to stay as he waded further through the surf, his head tipped back to the sun’s kiss, allowing his mind to drift a bit, to other waters, and a different kind of kiss, pressed to his cheeks with that shy, tender laugh.

“ _Boss_!”

He frowned, hearing the panicked edge to the title, reaching towards him from further inland, and he turned to find one of his cabin boys on the shore, frantically waving his arms. He sounded out of breath, like he’d been running at a dead sprint. “ _It’s_ _Garp_!”

Shanks blinked, the words taking some time to register properly, and he might have accused him of trying to pull a fast one on him, if it hadn’t been for the honest distress he could feel, all the way out in the water.

He walked out of the surf without any of the care he’d walked in, as his mind tried to grapple with the situation suddenly put before him. And he’d joked more than once that Garp might come for him if he ever found out about his visits to Fuschia and their reason, but he’d never imagined he actually _would._

“He’s _here_?” he asked, coming up from the beach to where the greenery began to thicken, heavily-laden trees bending low to scatter flowers and fruit across the grass, and when all he got was a nod, pressed, “Alone?”

Another nod, and a heaving breath. He looked like he was trying to reclaim it, before he gasped, “He showed up out of nowhere! Said he needs to speak with you.” When Shanks’ brows furrowed, he gulped, and asked, “D-do you think it’s about—”

He didn’t finish, but then he didn’t really need to, and Shanks offered a mildly deprecating thought to the fact that he’d be thirty in two years, and yet faced with the prospect of a disapproving father figure—and Monkey D. Garp, no less—he was seriously considering his escape routes, although came up despairingly short where those were concerned.

His sigh spoke of surrender, even as he joked, “What are the odds that we can stage an escape and actually get away with it without Garp brutally sinking us with a single cannonball?” At the look he got, he shook his head, his laugh a bit too soft to be unaffected. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

Putting the sea behind him, he made to walk back to the encampment, trying his best to ignore the sudden unease he felt, snaring around his insides. And it seemed odd for Garp to track him down all the way across the Grand Line just to _talk_ , even considering what was most likely the reason for his visit. Then again, he wouldn't have put it past Makino to have somehow convinced Garp to forego the violent urge to kill him in exchange for a few choice threats.

The thought of her helped settle some of the unease he was feeling, and despite it being Garp who’d sought him out, Shanks couldn’t help the flicker of what he belatedly recognised as excitement, realising suddenly that he’d get to hear about her.

God, he really was an idiot. Garp was probably well within his rights to punch his lights out for that alone.

When he arrived at the camp, Garp was already there, seeming wholly uncaring of the fact that he was surrounded on all sides by pirates, all of them armed and alert. Yasopp looked half a second away from drawing his rifle, and even Ben had his hand ready on his pistol.

They both glanced towards him as he came walking up, before they looked back at Garp, as though reluctant to take their eyes off him for long. It was probably wise, from what Shanks remembered of his encounters with the man.

“He’s finally come for your head,” Yasopp muttered, as Shanks came to stand between them.

He tried for a smile, but felt how tensely he’d set his jaw. “I’d laugh, but I fear you might be right,” Shanks murmured.

The whole encampment was dead silent. Even the birds seemed to have quieted, although that seemed unnecessarily ominous, even if it _was_ Garp. But even if no one spoke, there was no mistaking the tension in the air, every single member of his crew on their feet and poised to attack. Shanks felt their focus; the sharper edges of their presences that was usually smoothed by laughter. The fact that they’d been drinking wouldn’t make much of a difference if it did come to an altercation. And it might have been a little funny, a whole crew of pirates against a single marine, tensed as though they were up against a whole platoon, but Garp had a reputation for a very good reason.

Clearing his throat, “Garp,” Shanks greeted, with what he hoped was convincing cheer, even as the wrought expression on the old marine’s face had something cold settling in the pit of his gut. His earlier unease felt suddenly, startlingly, like dread. “Can I get you a drink?”

Garp just watched him, still without saying a word. He didn’t look much changed from when their paths had crossed last, a handful of years ago. His hair was still dark, although his beard had a little more grey in it, but otherwise he appeared the same immovable boulder of a man, in a pressed navy suit.

“Listen,” Shanks began, and knew he was about to run at the mouth, but couldn’t help it—Garp somehow managed to make him feel like he was fifteen again, and in trouble. “I know what it looks like, but I swear my intentions with her were entirely honourable. Granted, it’s a pirate’s honour, and I know you don’t really put much weight into that, but please believe me when I say that it was an entirely mutual seduction.” He winced, but couldn't kill his startled grin in time. “Shit—that’s not the right word. She’d be mortified if she heard I'd said that.”

A murmur of nervous laughter met the remark, straining against the tension, although it didn’t quite succeed in loosening it. Garp's expression hadn’t budged so much as an inch.

Shanks allowed his grin to soften, and hoped that if anything, Garp could see he was in earnest, as he said, quietly, “You know her, Garp. You know she wouldn’t have given me the time of day if it was just about that. And I know you don’t think much of me, but I hope you’ll believe me when I say it was never about that for me.”

He paused, and before he could lose his courage, admitted, honestly, “I love her.”

It wasn’t news. Not to his crew, and not to the girl in question, but Shanks knew he was making a gamble, revealing it to Garp, who might just decide that loving her was an even greater offence than seducing her into bed. And he’d expected the admission to be met with anger. Denial, maybe, or something more condemning—the accusation that he didn’t know what he was talking about, or that he had no right to claim any part of that girl, even loving her. Shanks had expected all of it, was prepared for it, and to stand his ground if need be. He respected Garp, but he wouldn’t take back what he’d said now any more than he would have done it when he’d told Makino.

What he didn’t expect was for Garp’s expression to change, and into something that looked closer to grief than anger.

And he thought then, that if Garp really had come for his head because of his relationship with Makino, he would be acting differently. He probably wouldn’t have given him the chance to speak, and would have let his fists do the talking. But the way he was looking at him had the dread in his gut twisting in on itself, until he could no longer keep his smile from slipping.

“Okay, you’re starting to freak me out here,” Shanks said, and knew already before he’d spoken the words that they didn’t manage to sound sufficiently cheerful, his voice sounding like he was short of breath. He felt how his fingers twitched beside the pommel of his sword, but didn’t reach to touch her kerchief.

He saw as Garp's expression deepened, as though in preparation, and, “There was a pirate raid,” he said then, his voice hoarse, although the words struck the quiet like he’d shouted them. “Two days ago.”

For a moment, no one spoke. They didn’t even seem to breathe, like the whole world had ground to a sudden halt. Then, Shanks felt the first stirrings of realisation, although his own had already caught up with him, and the answer to why Garp had come—why he was wearing that expression, his grief brighter than his anger, and worn so openly, as though he couldn't help it.

“No,” he said, his denial escaping with a breath.

Garp didn’t respond immediately, and there was a part of him that wanted to snap at him to explain, even as he didn’t want him to say anything at all, already knowing what was coming—the only reason Garp would be here, seeking _him_. But even as he recoiled from the truth, he needed to hear him say it, because he couldn’t believe his own assumptions without proof. He _couldn’t_.

“Garp,” Shanks said, and heard how his voice shook. “Is she—”

Garp still said nothing, and Shanks could only stare, helpless. And he heard his crew’s reactions now, their verbal disbelief only a little louder than what their presences revealed, the sharp sting of denial and fury lashing out as their voices did, demanding of Garp all the things Shanks couldn’t bring himself to speak, fearing the answer.

“They took her,” Garp said, in answer to no one, and all of them, although he hadn’t dropped his gaze from Shanks’. His knuckles were white where he’d clenched his hands to fists, like he was itching for a fight. “But she’s most likely still alive.”

Shanks didn’t think it was relief, the feeling he felt upon hearing that. It couldn’t be. Relief didn’t feel like this; like it wanted to rip him apart him within.

He needed to ask— _who_ , and _where._ If she was alive, there was no way he was going to sit quietly by. He’d find whoever took her, and he’d get her back, by whatever means necessary.

There were too many questions that needed answering—why had Garp gone through the effort of finding him, when he could be out looking for her?—but he couldn’t locate his voice to speak any of them. He still couldn’t believe what Garp was even telling him; couldn't believe that it was _real_.

But even as he struggled to accept it, Shanks wasn’t so naive as to think it couldn’t happen, even in a place as peaceful as Fuschia. He’d thought about it, the times they’d visited, the sleepy little port’s wariness easing away bit by bit; and even more often, the times they were away, thinking about her, and how exposed she was, running that bar on her own, no marine base and no one to protect her should the worst happen. Her reaction the day they’d met, endearing as he remembered it being, had been entirely warranted, but even understanding the reality of the age they lived in, it had still seemed hard to believe—that idyllic little place, protected from the world, and Makino, who should have been safe; who he would have given anything to keep that way.

“There’s something else,” Garp said then, and Shanks couldn’t have hoped to guess what it could be, even as he suspected it wouldn’t be good news, going by the deepening grief on his face, but nothing could have prepared him for what Garp was about to say.

“She’s pregnant.”

His breath rushed out of him so fast he thought he’d been punched. Around him, his crew lowered their weapons, and the silence lost its tension completely.

“… _what?_ ”

It took him a second to recognise his own voice, and to realise he was the one who’d spoken, the word barely more than a breath where it shivered out of him. Around him they'd all gone quiet, their eyes wide-sprung and staring at Garp, nothing left of their outrage, like it had been snuffed out. Yasopp lowered his rifle, stunned. Even Ben's wary expression had slipped right off his face, leaving the closest thing to shock Shanks had ever seen.

For a brief moment, he thought he’d misheard him, but Garp’s expression left no room for ambiguity, and finally understanding just what he was saying, Shanks could do nothing but stare.

“Seven months,” Garp said, heavily, even as it was unnecessary, because he knew already—had been counting the weeks without meaning to, still unable to come to terms with the fact that he was facing ten years without her.

Seven months since they’d left Fuschia. Seven months since he’d last seen her, since he’d woken wrapped around her and she’d laughed into his kisses, lovely and hungover, and he'd forgotten for a breath that he was leaving as he’d pressed her body into his bunk and loved her like he never meant to go anywhere. But he had left, and _she’d_ been—

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t seem to will his limbs into reacting, his whole body frozen like it had ceased to answer his commands, and Garp’s words clanging through his head as the truth ripped through him without mercy.

_Pregnant._

He watched as Garp swallowed, and it looked like it took effort for him to speak the words when he said, gruffly, “She wanted to tell you herself. About the kid. That’s why I’m here.” He clenched his jaw, his regret somehow worse than his anger. “Don’t know if it would have changed anything if I’d come sooner, but…you deserve to know, either way. She—if it was up to her, she’d have wanted me to tell you. In case she—”

He didn’t finish, and Shanks was glad—didn’t think he could have taken it, if Garp had finished that sentence.

His look hardened then, and the terrible promise in it was felt, even as he felt numbed to everything around him. “Make no mistake,” Garp said, each word like a blow, although Shanks was barely standing as it was. “I’m gonna find whoever took her. There won’t be a puddle on this godforsaken ocean those bastards can stir a single ripple in without me hearing about it, and their whole organisation can’t protect them once I find them. I’ll have them all begging for Impel Down by the time I’m done.”

He turned on his heel to walk away, and Shanks acted before he could think.

“ _Garp!_ ”

There was enough naked desperation in his voice that he had to wonder if that wasn’t what halted Garp in his tracks, although he didn’t turn around to look at him.

There was a long beat where he didn’t move, and where no one said a word. And Shanks didn’t know what he meant to do—if he wanted to beg, or demand, or something else entirely, but he was still reeling from the news, and he needed _something._ Any foothold that would keep him from shattering completely.

“It’s out of my jurisdiction, but I’ll use whatever resources I have,” Garp said then, looking over his shoulder. There was no kindness in his expression, although his words weren’t devoid of sympathy. “I’ll let you know when I hear something.”

“If they took her, they’re bringing her somewhere,” Ben spoke up, and Shanks looked at him just as Garp did the same, and didn’t know if it was a plea or just the opposite that he offered his first mate. He didn’t know if he wanted to hear what Ben looked ready to say, ever-practical, and steady even as the world felt like it was coming apart under his feet.

Garp’s brow furrowed further, although it seemed in agreement, Shanks thought.

“She’s beautiful,” Ben continued, after a beat. Then, with visible effort, “And she’s pregnant. She won’t just be shipped off to some remote labour camp.”

The words _struck_. Shanks felt every blow, and might have hated him for sounding so unshaken, but Ben’s outward calm was betrayed by the way his fingers shook where they gripped the butt of his cigarette.

Ben let out a breath, and set his jaw. “We should be looking at auction houses,” he said. Shanks watched as the line of his mouth hardened, the furrow of his brow tugging at the scar across his temple. “But going by the look on your face, you’ve already thought about that.”

Garp said nothing, although his silence said enough, and his expression; the terrible fury that looked like it was taking everything he had just to contain. And there was a moment where Shanks wondered if he’d stay silent, but then, “Sabaody,” Garp said, the word like a growl. His hands were clenched so tight they shook. “The World Nobles rarely dignify the others with their patronage.” The last word was almost spat. “That’s the most prestigious one. And she’s—” He stopped, despair suddenly overtaking his fury. He looked like he couldn’t even make himself speak the words.

“What?” Yasopp asked, seeming to be the only one who could muster the strength, but Shanks already knew the answer.

“She’s pregnant,” he said, roughly. He felt their eyes where they all shot towards him, the weight of their questions pressing down on his shoulders. And he felt sick to his stomach, just thinking it. “Slavers profit off unborn children. A healthy child will fetch as much as a mermaid if the right people are buying.”

Their child. They’d be bidding on _their_  child, and _Makino._

He could barely seem to wrap his mind around the fact that he was going to be a father, the news seeming insignificant in comparison, and yet at the same time, more significant than anything. He didn’t know what to do with himself, or what he was even feeling, other than crippling helplessness.

Yasopp just stared at him, his expression reflecting the horror and despair Shanks could feel pressing in from around him, and from within. Somewhere at his back, someone’s rifle clattered to the ground.

A wavering voice spoke up then, putting words to a truth Shanks already felt, “S-Sabaody’s at the very end of Paradise. Even if we leave right now, it would take us _weeks_ to get there. Ma-chan would be—”

He didn’t finish, but they were all thinking it. Shanks couldn’t think about anything else.

The sharp downturn of Ben’s mouth was unforgiving. “Even if it didn’t take us that long, they’d probably still beat us to it.” And Shanks already knew what he would say next, even before he did. “If they’re going from East Blue to Sabaody, they’ll be crossing the Calm Belt. The usual route would take too long, given the nature of their cargo. And it would be the best way to avoid Government patrols. The navy isn’t the only organisation with ships outfitted for a successful crossing.”

Ben looked at Garp, expression openly accusing. “There are those who speculate that they’re the ones who’ve sanctioned their use of that technology. Not officially, of course. The Government likes to keep its records clean, but that the human market is even allowed to exist says enough.”

Garp didn’t answer, not to refute the accusation or to defend himself. Instead, he seemed to accept the judgement offered; as though he already had even before coming.

Shanks was having trouble standing, his chest constricting painfully, like someone had wrapped a fist around his heart.

 _Sabaody_. The human market, where she’d be sold to the highest bidder. If he lost her there, he might never find her. She could be taken anywhere in the world, and their _child_ —

He didn’t know if it could even be called fury, the rage that seized him; that surged up within him like a wordless roar. It seemed worse than that, an anger more terrible than anything he’d ever felt or thought himself capable of feeling, imagining Makino, at the hands of slavers. _Pregnant._

“Silvers,” Garp said then, and Shanks looked up, startled, dragged back from where he’d been drowning, choking on his own anger. Garp cleared his throat roughly. “His wife runs an underground railroad. They might—” He paused, and swallowed before he said, “If anyone knows anything, it’ll be her.”

Another man might have called it a lifeline, but even as he accepted it, Shanks felt just how thin it was, and how little he could do. If they even brought her to Sabaody, there was no guarantee Shakky would hear about it. Slavery was such a prolific trade on this sea, and there were so many people ferried through established channels every single day, bought and sold and disappearing from official records, as though they’d never existed. The efforts of one woman couldn’t do much but save a handful of souls every now and then, and the odds that Makino would be one of them were slim to none.

But even as helplessness tried to pull him back under, he felt that reckless fury shoving him back to the surface. He couldn’t just give up now. Not while there was something he could do to save her, and their unborn child, however hard he still struggled to believe it even existed.

He had to find her. He had to find them both. He’d never forgive himself if he lost her now.

“Garp,” Shanks said, before he could walk away. It felt like it took everything he had just to keep standing, but the vow was firm, unwavering where it lashed out with his voice. “I’ll get them back.”

Garp didn’t move, only stood there, his back turned to them. Then with a glance over his shoulder, “She was happy,” he said, and Shanks felt as his anger fled, as though ripped out of him with a shuddering breath, as Garp added, “About the baby.” And he might as well have delivered it with a closed fist, from how Shanks flinched back.

“She loves you,” Garp continued, and if he'd had the strength he might have begged him to _stop,_ although there was no more kindness in that remark than his first. “The devil only knows why. And that girl deserves more than a crook’s affections, but if you feel even a shred of the same for her, like you claimed,” he said, fury kindling along the words, leaving his voice breathless as he spat, “you’re damn right you'll get them back.”

Then he turned his head sharply, as though he couldn’t bear to look at him another second, and strode away.

Shanks watched his retreating figure where it disappeared between the trees, but couldn’t move, or even call after him again—didn’t even know what he would have said if he did.

He was only vaguely aware of the rising agitation around him, their voices raised, louder and louder, and their anger blossoming back up, like a wildfire catching in dry grass where it enveloped him, but it was preferable to the numbness that kept him frozen in place, still looking in the direction Garp had disappeared.

It took him a moment to regain control of himself, and his body, the remnants of the quiet beach and the warm surf forgotten, and he felt cold, and hot, that breathless fury finding him again; the one he hadn’t felt in well over ten years. Not since Roger’s execution had he felt like this; like he might have torn the sea to shreds, if only to alleviate the anger, and the blame that felt directed at everyone, including himself.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how she’d been, the last time he’d seen her, smiling through her tears as they’d said their goodbyes, stubbornly happy despite everything. He thought of the tiny shape of her where she’d pressed herself against him, so close it had felt like she’d never meant to let him go. She’d been so small—so gentle, and so _good_ , he hadn’t been able to imagine anything happening to her; that the would could allow it.

His arm felt empty without her now, more than it had on any of the days since he’d left, and even if he could have done nothing to protect her, halfway across the world and on an entirely different sea, he still felt the guilt where it ate at him, feeling that he should have. He should have been able to protect her, somehow—her, who was more important than anything, and even more than that, the child he'd been part of creating.

She’d been happy about the pregnancy; about having a child with him. Happy, even though he’d left. Even if it changed her whole future, binding her to a part of him forever, she’d been _happy_.

If he never saw her again—if he lost her, and their child that wasn't even born yet; that he'd known about for less than an hour but that seemed suddenly like the only thing that had ever mattered—

“Get the ship ready,” Shanks snapped, and was already striding towards the shore as the others scrambled to follow, and his voice didn’t sound like his own as he spat the order.

“We’re setting our course for Sabaody.”

 

—

 

The human market, they called it.

“Get moving!”

There was a sharp jerk at the shackles they’d put around her wrists, and Makino stumbled in her step, but managed to catch herself before she could fall forward. She could barely see where they were going. Even setting, the sun was hard on her eyes as they brought them out on deck, and she had to clench them shut against the glare. It throbbed like a headache behind her eyes, and she blinked several times against the tears that sprang up, unbidden, but they weren’t given time to adjust to the change as they were herded off the gangway and onto the wharf.

She could have sobbed with relief at the sensation of solid ground under her feet, as she took her first step onto the island and it didn’t sway beneath her. She had no concept of how much time had passed since she’d woken up in the hold of the slaver, but she’d spent most of their voyage feeling ill, the rocking of the ship keeping her awake, and constantly on the brink of emptying her stomach. The brisk sea air felt like a relief where she filled her lungs with it, and for the first time in days, the persisting nausea lessened a bit.

She felt as the baby kicked, having grown familiar with the sensation over the course of the past few days, nothing else to occupy herself but to wait, and learn the small movements of the child in her belly. And she’d grown more comfortable touching her stomach now, seeking the kicks, but couldn’t reach for it this time, her wrists shackled and held before her as they led them all in a single file down the length of the wharf.

She looked out across the island they’d been brought to, her eyes still squinting and full of tears, but they widened as they took in the thick grove of trees that rose from the seabed, as though part of the island’s structure. The massive trunks spanned the width of several buildings with ease; Makino saw the houses nestled at the foot of one of the trees, the signs out front promising drink and entertainment, and various other services for those who had coin to spend. Painted on the trunk of the tree high above the rooftops were two letters and a number in large red script: 'GR 1'.

It smelled _green_ , she thought, unable to find a better way to explain it. Like the sea, the salt creeping between the branches of the grove, but still fresh and loamy, like she thought a forest should smell, although even as the thought registered, there were no memories to suggest she’d ever set foot in a forest before.

Observing it, she furrowed her brow, noticing for the first time what looked like bubbles, having gathered under the canopy in thick clusters, the setting sun glinting off them in hues of purple and pink to contrast the green of the trees, spilling colour over the grass and the water in the port. And before her eyes, she watched as one rose up from the ground, pulling free like a sigh, the smooth surface gleaming, shiny like soap where it drifted upwards, before it exploded with a loud, almost melodic ‘ _pop_ ’.

Makino stared, mesmerised.

Another yank at her shackles dragged her out of her daze, but the reprimand that followed wasn’t directed at her this time, as the leader cuffed his subordinate over the back of his head.

“Mind how you handle this one,” he snapped, although there was no genuine concern behind his irritation. This was the first time she got a good look at him since he’d entered the hold to announce they’d arrived, and that they should pick up their feet, unless they wanted to lose them. He looked to be in his late forties, and had greying hair pulled back in a low, greasy ponytail. Makino dropped her gaze, not liking the hungry glint in his eyes; the greed that saturated his whole presence.

“If anything happens to the brat, I’m holding you responsible for the money we lose,” he told the one holding the chain; a young man not much older than she was, who flinched back at the tongue-lashing. “It’ll be your worthless ass on the auction house docket, and I’ll take whatever scraps I get for it.”

He didn’t even glance at her as he strode past, shouting an order to hurry it up, and they fell into step behind him. The one holding the chain linking them together didn’t yank at it again.

It felt good to stretch her legs, her knees aching from all the sitting she’d been doing, and when they stepped off the docks and her bare feet touched the grass, Makino couldn’t help the breath that shuddered from her chest. But they didn’t pause to let them get comfortable, ushering them away from the wharf and further into the grove, the illusion of freedom offered by the fresh air and with no bars caging them in shattered with every rattle of the chains, and the shackles digging into her wrists.

She observed the trees as they walked past, towering high above their heads, the canopy so thick it blocked out the sky. The setting sun at their backs elongated their shadows across the grass where they walked, shuffling towards an unnamed destination. No one spoke but the slavers; Makino heard them laughing up ahead, talking cheerfully about shore leave, and hitting the taphouses once they’d deposited of the cargo.

 _Cargo_. The word that had made no sense to her just a few days ago made her hands clench now, her knuckles white under her skin where they rested over the swell of her stomach. The size of it gave her a slight waddle, and hindered her walking a bit, but the others matched her pace without question, so it wouldn’t be noticed. And even as worry stirred in her chest, knowing they were more likely to be punished for tarrying than her, Makino felt a surge of gratitude at the small demonstration, feeling new tears pressing against her eyes, but not because of the light this time.

They’d been walking for a while when they arrived at a building, an enormous structure of brick and wood sitting between four towering pillars, their roofs pointed where they arched into the canopy, even as they couldn’t hope to reach it. The house itself was painted green, the red-tiled roof gently curved, while the very top of the structure was steepled and covered in grass. Compared to some of the buildings they’d passed, it looked to be in a much better state, no crumbling bricks or fading paint in sight. A sign was mounted above the entrance, bearing a single word:

 _Human_.

She wasn’t given the chance to inspect it further as they were herded inside, beneath an arching entryway lined with polished marble columns and up a flight of steps in the same pale stone, scrubbed to shining, before passing through a set of heavy wooden doors that groaned mournfully as they were pushed inwards. The inside of the building was dark and cool, a welcome relief from the island's humid climate, but it was a brief respite, as they were quickly ushered down a winding staircase that seemed to lead into a basement.

The stone floor was jarringly cold under her feet, but she tried to ignore the discomfort, and the foreboding sight of the cells that greeted them, thick iron bars lining the length of the corridor where they were led towards the end, stopping at intervals as the slavers distributed them between the cells.

She lost track of North and the other girls who’d been in her compartment on the ship, and by the time they'd reached the last cell, Makino was the only one left, along with the older slaver—the one with the greying hair and the greedy spirit.

The door shrieked as it was dragged open, but looking at it, she couldn’t will herself to move. It was damp and musty, like the hold of the ship, although it lacked the pervasive smell of saltwater and vomit.

She wanted desperately to run, feeling how the walls closed in around her, the sensation worse than anything she’d experienced since she’d woken up on the slaver. There was no fresh air here, no loamy forest smell, and no cool sea breeze, just the heady stench of sweat and human filth, seeming only emphasised by the moisture in the air, gathering in her hair and between her shoulder blades.

She couldn’t move, and it took a hand grabbing her shoulder to make her feet obey as she was shoved inside.

The cell had a few meagre furnishings—a waste bucket, and straw to cover the stone floor. There was a single bunk tucked against the wall opposite the bars, on which a body was curled up. For a second, Makino wondered if the woman was dead.

“Hey,” barked the man gripping her shoulder, kicking the bunk so it rattled. “This one gets the bunk, so get off.”

The woman pushed herself up weakly, making no sound. Upon getting a closer look, Makino saw that her arm was broken, and didn’t manage to stifle the gasp as she caught sight of her face, the skin discoloured with bruises and one of her eyes swelled shut.

She tried to protest, turning to the slaver. “I don’t need—”

“Shut up,” he cut her off, releasing her arm roughly, only to drag the woman off the bunk, before throwing her to the floor. Makino was surprised she didn’t cry out, but saw how she clenched her jaw as she rolled over on her side.

“Damn man-hating Kuja trash,” the slaver spat. Then, gleefully, “So much for your warrior spirit.” He kicked her sharply between the ribs, still without yielding a sound, and Makino almost reached for him, to shout for him to _stop_ , when he spat at the woman where she lay. She didn’t even flinch. “Keep kidding yourself. Even in armour, women are _weak_.”

He looked at Makino, his hand cinching painfully around her arm, before he shoved her onto the bunk. “Stay there.” He loosened the shackles from around her wrists, allowing them to slip free, and as he moved to walk away, threw a last, disdainful glance at the woman on the floor. “And if you wonder what happens if you cause trouble, just look at her.”

Then he was gone, the cell door slamming shut behind him before the lock slid into place. Makino listened to his receding footsteps, and when she couldn’t hear them anymore, moved to climb off the bunk.

Kneeling by the fallen woman, she reached to touch her shoulder. “Come on.”

She got a weak croak of protest for her efforts. “He said—”

“I don’t care what he said,” Makino cut her off gently, but was surprised at the force behind her own words. “You need the bunk more than I do.” And with a smile that didn’t feel at all convincing, but it was all she had to give, said, “I’ve spent enough days lying down. I’ll lose my mind if I have to do it any more.”

The woman looked ready to protest again, but with a little coaxing, Makino was helping her off the floor and onto the bunk, feeling how her hands shook as she tried to support her.

She was strong—even beaten within an inch of her life, there was no mistaking the strength in the coils of muscle under her bruised skin, and her presence, which felt like a bowstring pulled across her mind, ready to be loosed. And she was tall as a man. Even with her back bent, Makino didn’t reach her shoulder, standing beside her.

“Thank you,” she sighed, as she eased back against the worn mattress. Her long, black hair was matted with blood, and the one eye she could open was a bright, lilac-blue. Her skin was a dark, burnished bronze, like she’d lived under the sun; the contrast seemed as stark as their sizes, her own hand small and white where it rested on her shoulder. Makino couldn’t place her age; it was hard to tell with her face so ravaged, although she thought she had to be at least a few years older.

She remained seated on her knees beside the bunk, and she saw how the woman’s eye took her in, before her brow furrowed as she caught sight of her stomach. “Wait—”

“It’s fine,” Makino said, having anticipated the protest, and reached out to ease her back down when she tried to sit up.

“In my culture,” the woman rasped, “pregnant women command respect. I can’t—”

“Too bad,” Makino said, softly but firmly, as she pushed her back down, although she doubted she could have held her down if she’d really wanted to get off the bunk. “And this pregnant woman doesn’t feel disrespected.”

She looked ready to protest again, and so, “What’s your name?” Makino asked, hoping it would distract her.

She watched as she let out a breath, her chest caving with it, and she noticed then that she wasn’t clad in the same dirty rags as the slaves on the ship. Instead she wore what looked like leather armour, her dark green breastplate embossed in a continuous, mesmeric pattern, like a snake’s skin. The remains of a tattered velvet half-cape was trapped beneath her where she lay, attached to one of her shoulder guards. She was missing one of her greaves, and was cradling her broken arm to her chest.

She’d closed her good eye, and Makino saw then that it wasn’t a bruise that discoloured the skin above it, but what looked like paint, the purple line smeared and uneven.

Swallowing thickly, she seemed to look for her voice, before she said, “Kikyo.” She didn’t open her eye as she asked, a tired sigh easing out of her, “And you, little one?”

Makino might have answered, but saw that she’d drifted off, the soft rise and fall of her chest the only thing that kept her from panicking, thinking she’d drawn her last breath.

She didn’t move from where she sat, feeling suddenly exhausted, the events of the past few hours bearing down on her—their arrival, and the brief taste of the world outside the ship, which seemed especially cruel now, sitting on the floor of the dark prison cell. Her legs felt too weak to hold her weight, and Makino didn’t think she could have lifted herself up if she’d wanted to, her stomach heavy where she slumped, her knees digging into the straw.

Watching Kikyo sleeping, she willed her thoughts away from where they seemed to always want to go, to that wide-open nothingness in her mind. An irrational part of her wanted to shake her awake so she could ask her questions, not caring what they were as long as her answers would fill the silence, but more than anything, the gaps of information in her head. She wanted to ask her where she’d come from, and what culture she’d referred to that revered pregnant women so much; where a woman wore armour like she was headed into war.

It was a sobering thought, taking in her injuries; the broken arm and the bruises. She’d fought back, that much was clear, but even someone as physically strong as she was hadn’t been able to free herself. What hope did Makino have to do the same?

Turning on her knees, she allowed her back to sink against the side of the bunk, a deep breath drawn through her nose as she turned her focus towards the muted voices from the cells further down the corridor, and the people whose presences she'd learned to know. North, with that bright, piercing edge, and the other girls, all of them tired and frightened.

She was physically exhausted, but not enough for her mind to find rest, as it circled the same thoughts, again and again, all the information she'd gathered but that found no foothold within her. The sea they called the Grand Line, that they could somehow make themselves call  _Paradise_. Sabaody, and the human market. She felt rudderless in a world that made no sense, still nothing to hold on to but the few scraps of herself she had; her name, and the anchor that rested in the hollow of her throat. The unborn child in her belly.

Fingers splaying over the curve, Makino felt it kicking, as though in question, and thought, helpless, _I don’t know._ She stroked her hand over the place she could feel the kicking the strongest, and wondered at the little shape inside; that surprising show of strength, when she didn’t feel like she had any of her own to give. _I don’t know what will happen to you._

There was no response, just another of those fluttering kicks, and she felt suddenly silly for answering what had felt like a question. But it was all she had, her connection to that little life, an anchor like the one around her neck. Sitting there in the cell, the woman behind her fast asleep and the others out of reach, even as she could feel them at the edges of her mind, the child growing within her was her only company.

She sat there in the dark as the hours crept past, feeling the baby moving under her hand, wondering what kind of life she was headed for, and if it was better or worse than the one she’d come from.

 

—

 

She wouldn’t remember the dream when she woke—wouldn’t remember the wrap of a heavy cloak around her shoulders, and rough hands curled around hers, strong fingers and sun-darkened skin, and grinning kisses nipped at her knuckles. Hard floorboards under her back, and the sun slanting through bright red hair across a white pillow. The rugged spine of a book under the trail of her fingertip becoming bone under warm, scarred skin, arching towards her touch. Three red lines, repeated over and over, and the anchor around her neck growing heavy, pulling her down into the dark. And through it all, a voice warmed with laughter, singing _my girl, my girl, my girl_ —

 

—

 

She stirred from a restless sleep by a hand touching her shoulder, and had barely had time to blink her eyes open before there was someone urging her to her feet.

“Little one,” said a voice, a deep lilt carrying a slight rasp of strain, and Makino started, the identity of the speaker registering a second before a strong hand curved under her elbow, only to lift her off the floor where she’d been sitting. “Thank you for allowing me to rest, but they’re coming, and I don’t think they’d take too well to your show of kindness.”

Understanding what she was saying, Makino nodded, although she felt the grip of guilt as she was gently urged down on the bunk, before Kikyo eased herself back onto the straw-covered stones. And she’d just had the chance to come awake fully when the cell door groaned, admitting two men dressed as guards, along with the leader of the slavers and a man she didn’t recognise.

“I was told you’d brought me something exciting, and I need a show-stopper for today’s auction. Celestial Dragons grow bored easily, and we only have one fishman on today’s docket. Is this the one you were talking about? _Oh_ , well now. You weren’t exaggerating.”

He was clad in a burgundy coat, the deep colour kindled by the glow of the lamp dangling from his hand where he lifted it. He wore a high-necked shirt, and a perfectly trimmed moustache curled merrily across his upper lip. Not a hair seemed out of place, like every single piece of him had been carefully chosen and arranged to perfection. Even between the walls of the cell, he looked wholly at ease.

Makino watched as he took them both in, his eyes shrewdly assessing as he beckoned for the guards to bring her forward. She felt the woman at her back reacting, jerking sharply, as though physically holding herself back from intervening. Sparking with outrage, the bowstring-presence in her mind tightened further, as though pulled beyond its capacity, but she did nothing.

Her wrists were shackled again, and before she could realise what was happening, he’d snapped a metal collar around her neck, the weight of it so surprising she nearly staggered forward.

“Have a care,” he told her, sounding deceptively cheerful. “It’s not just for show. Stay in line, and I won’t have to demonstrate what I mean.”

She didn’t ask, feeling already by the weight and the odd shape just what it suggested. She didn’t want to find out if her suspicions were correct.

Turning on his heel, he waved his hand with a beckoning flourish, as though to gesture for them to follow, and Makino wasn’t given the chance to react as she was suddenly pushed forward and out the door.

Everything that happened next felt like a blur.

They washed her face—scrubbed it until it hurt, and then combed the tangles from her hair, until her scalp ached from it. A woman in a white coat came to check her teeth, her ears, her feet and her belly, and even dazed as she was, they had to hold her down while the physician spread her legs, still with that same no-nonsense efficiency as she examined her, and writing her notes without even flinching at the furious shout Makino muffled into the hand clamped over her mouth.

When she was done, she removed her filthy shift, exchanging it with another, the fabric soft and clean, although it amounted to little more than a white sheet of fabric.

“She’s good to go,” she said, waving to a guard waiting by the door. Even with her thorough, humiliating examination, it felt like she’d barely even seen her.

A rough hand gripped her shoulder, and without another word, she was led from the room and down another dimly lit corridor. There were others like her, in similar white shifts, the same metal collars circling their necks, seeming to weigh down their heads as they walked. Girls her age, and women who were older, including Kikyo; the only one walking with her head held high, as though in pure defiance. There was a young man whose arms looked unusually long where they hung before him, linked at the wrists. And even stranger than that—a creature, rising taller than them all, with thick, grey skin, and something that looked like fins protruding from the sharp ridge of his neck, only to disappear under his shift.

Makino tried not to stare, but couldn’t help it.

They were led out onto a stage, within what looked like a large amphitheatre. From the walls hung heavy draperies of red velvet, an opulence emphasised by the lights circling the stage, marking it as the focal point of the room. Lifting her eyes to the audience, Makino saw the seats sprawling outwards in a steep climb, nearly all of them filled.

The auctioneer—because that was what he was, wearing his charisma like his finery; with all the confidence of an entertainer—was already speaking, but she could barely pay attention to what he was saying as they were lined up behind him, to face the audience.

She felt outside of herself, watching the auctioneer in his burgundy coat addressing the audience, although from where she was standing, Makino had trouble seeing their faces with the bright glare of the lights overhead.

It felt surreal. Even with everything that had happened, her memory loss and the voyage and the strange grove with the bubbles, it didn’t feel _real,_ standing there, watching as the people around her were presented and auctioned off, one by one, the only thing seeming to separate them being the rousing cheers from the crowd following a successful bid.

“Now, next on our docket,” declared the auctioneer, and Makino felt a tug at the shackles around her wrists, making her stumble forward into the centre of the stage, and she realised abruptly that it was her turn. “We have a particularly exciting treat for you!”

The shackles were removed, freeing her hands, although she felt the light tap given to the collar around her neck, a silent suggestion that she was anything but free.

Her arms hung limp against her sides, her wrists aching, and she felt suddenly, uncomfortably aware of herself, standing there in the middle of the stage with her feet bare in the thin white shift, the fabric straining against her pregnant stomach.

As though in direct response to the thought, “A _surrogate_!” the auctioneer cried. Something in her recoiled at the term, but she couldn’t move, her body frozen under the glare of the lights, and the eyes of the whole audience, having fixed on her.

There was a round of excited cheers from the rows, and Makino watched as the auctioneer's grin stretched, seeming delighted to have prompted it.

“She’s young, and in perfect health, as confirmed by our very own physicians,” he continued, with a sweeping gesture towards her where she stood, feeling so small, the auction hall might as well have been the whole world. “A beautiful specimen, as you can see. The child will not be anything less, I can assure you.”

Makino felt their eyes on her—felt their presences, and counted several hundred people in the audience, so many her mind stumbled over the numbers, unable to take them all in. They seemed to reach towards her, like invisible hands prodding at her, examining her. And she felt as they sparked with interest, the flickers like a hundred candle flames, and yet paradoxically, she felt the indifference in their hearts; a detachment when they looked at her, as though she wasn’t a living, breathing person, being sold before their very eyes.

She felt like she was going to be sick.

“We’ll start the bidding at ten million, for the child,” the auctioneer announced. “The surrogate will start at one million. A little higher than our usual starting price, but looking at her, I think you can all understand why.”

He had a loud, friendly laugh. She thought she’d never hated a sound more.

There were murmurs from the audience, and she cast her eyes across the people gathered in the rows. She couldn’t see all the way towards the ones in the far back, but she noticed a couple in the front row, seated in the very middle. They were dressed in heavy white robes, threaded with gold and bedecked with precious jewels, seeming to drip from the fabric, but what caught and held her gaze were the glass helmets they wore over their heads.

She watched as the woman turned towards her partner, her lips moving behind the glass, before he raised his hand, the gesture almost careless. He looked bored, like he'd rather be elsewhere.

“Your Excellence, front and centre! Ten million. Wonderful! Can I get fifteen?”

More murmurs sounded from the surrounding seats, and Makino saw more couples like the first, all of them clad in that strange finery. They looked almost otherworldly, as though they didn’t belong among the other people in the audience, even as they still looked human beneath their heavy, gilded trappings.

“Fifteen! Excellent, excellent. Perhaps we can go as far as  _twenty_ million?”

She was only vaguely paying attention to the auctioneer, distracted by the audience, but she was brought back when he suddenly turned towards her, his hand thrown out in a wide arc, as though to indicate the whole of her.

“Not only can we guarantee you a healthy child, but for the pride of your house, wouldn’t you want something _extraordinary_? Just look at the surrogate.”

A sharp jerk of his head, and one of the guards who’d brought her out stepped forward to grip her chin, forcing it up.

“Just _lovely_ ,” crooned the auctioneer, his voice ringing out across the amphitheatre, amplified by the microphone in his hand. “Imagine a little daughter. Those _eyes_ , now. Who could resist?”

Makino heard them responding—heard their _coos_ and murmurs of agreement, but couldn’t seem to take it in over herself.

“ _Twenty million_! Splendid! Can I get thirty? You’ll be hard pressed finding a lovelier creature on any sea. Hard to believe she's human, isn't it? I've seen mermaids not even half as exquisite!”

A frantic wave of his hand followed, and the one gripping her chin released it, before she was physically turned around, her arms nudged into lifting, her shoulders pushed back as she was shown from every angle. And it was like her earlier examination, only worse, not just one pair of eyes scrutinising her now but _hundreds,_ and even if they weren't touching her they might as well be, from how her humiliation burned under her skin.

“She’ll make a perfect housemaid. Just observe, how demure—and how obedient! Truly, a valuable addition to any household. And so _dainty_ —like a little dove! Don't you just want to eat her up? Just look at that delicate little figure. Perhaps not the best fit for hard labour, although,”—and at this he chuckled, as though letting them in on a private joke—“that depends on what you mean by _hard_ labour. Gentlemen, when was the last time your wife's duties left you satisfied? I guarantee you'll find this one very _accommodating,_ with a little force. Now, obviously she’s already been broken in, although our physician has assured me there is no danger of any illnesses transferring—”

She stopped listening to what he was saying, numbed by the words. And she felt more than just _interest_  now, sparking in her mind; an attraction of a vastly different sort from several of the men in the audience. She felt how it crawled over her skin, the suggestive promise like it wanted to choke her breath from her lungs. It took effort to keep standing, her knees suddenly threatening to give out from underneath her.

The auctioneer laughed; that horrible, _friendly_ laugh. “Patience, patience! We will begin the bidding for the surrogate in just a moment! First, the child. Did I hear thirty? Thirty! We are most honoured to be blessed by your patronage, Your Excellencies. We have selected nothing less than our very best for your perusal today. The very _best_. I don’t think I’d be remiss in upping the bid to...fifty million?”

Another gesture towards her, this time indicating her stomach. “Now, you might be thinking, ‘how can we be guaranteed a healthy child?’ She’s such a little thing! But our physicians are among the world’s foremost in their field, and I’ve been assured the child is strong and kicking! Of course, should the surrogate not survive, you are guaranteed a full refund, should you choose to bid for her today. She is due in just a few months. There will hardly be a wait, for either party. Just think—you can begin decorating your nursery this very morning!”

Makino saw the woman in the front row, the one whose husband had made the first bid—saw as she gripped his elbow, her expression imploring behind the polished glass of her helmet. _Longing_ , almost.

She wondered if she might have felt sympathetic, if it hadn’t been for the tight knot of fury that was coiling together at the base of her ribcage, watching them—looking at her, but neither of them _seeing_ her. Bidding for the unborn child in her belly, as though it was any other household item; as though Makino was nothing more than a vessel to hold it. A _surrogate._

Greed stoked by greed, more bids were offered, each one higher than the last and climbing rapidly towards a truly unbelievable sum, until she could no longer tell them apart, the voices from the audience blending together to white noise in her head. She was having trouble breathing, her whole body trembling, but it wasn't out of fear.

The auctioneer was still catering to that greed, to their money-purses and their vanity and darker things still, painting an exaggerated picture of what their investment would earn them. A dainty little girl, the loveliest among their peers’ offspring. Or better yet—a strapping boy to take home as their own, who’d be none the wiser of his lowly origins; who’d be their legacy to the world; who’d _become_ something truly great, under their prestigious parentage.

Makino thought she could have ripped his throat out.

 _They won’t take you_ , she thought suddenly, something fiercely protective surging up within her, and even if she didn’t speak the words out loud, hoped the baby could feel it, somehow, just how deeply she believed them—so much that she felt wild from it, that she forgot about the collar around her neck and what it promised. All she could think about were those little kicks, and the child making them, wholly innocent, and ignorant of what was going on in the world they’d be born into, protected by nothing but her body, tiny and weak as it was. She had nothing else to shield it with, except the terrible _feeling_ that overtook her now, that didn’t leave room for detachment, or indifference.

And it didn’t matter who the father was, or how it had been conceived. It was _her_ child. She wasn’t a surrogate—she was a _mother._

_I won’t let them take you!_

She thought she might have screamed the words—to have ripped the collar from her neck with her bare hands, but before she could do anything, a sudden rush of power seized her limbs in a vice, stealing her breath. Like a shockwave, it slammed against her; Makino felt the sudden pressure, the weight of it bearing down on the whole auction hall. It buzzed in her ears, raising the hairs on her arms, but even gripped by it, it didn’t hurt.

Without warning, the auctioneer slammed into the stage, as though knocked out cold, and Makino could only watch, frozen with shock more than the pressure where it enveloped her. In the audience, people were screaming, and frantically scrambling to get away from whatever had been the cause of the disruption.

Through the chaos, she caught sight of a figure standing on the stairs between the rows, sloping down towards the stage. It was a man, and she might have mistaken him for just another member of the audience if it hadn’t been for how his presence singled him out. It felt different than the others—greater, like it claimed more of the world, and it was calm, despite the panic she felt, rippling through the other people in the auction hall.

“Oh?” he laughed, his voice reaching her through the din. Squinting her eyes, Makino saw he was an older man, the overhead lights glinting off his silver hair, and the round glasses perched on his nose. His smile crooked, looking as warm as his presence felt, although there was an unmistakable edge to it as he swept his eyes across the stage, and the people gathered in the seats, before they raised to meet hers.

“I seem to have interrupted something.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I needed a drink after writing that auction house scene. _My poor girl_.
> 
> Also, not that I'm not delighted by the gentle outrage at this whole premise, but I would still like to stress the fact that I have never not given these two a happy ending together (even the _thirty years fic_ ), and this story will be no exception. You know me—I have a soft heart (and a terrible masochistic streak, but that's entirely beside the point).


	3. so long and lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some blatant references to Peony and Silver and Ray and Shakky’s backstory in this chapter, including bits I…haven’t technically gotten to in that fic yet, although some of you may have picked up on Shakky’s connection to Makino through my other stories.

A blink and he was gone, vanished from before her eyes, and in a way that made Makino wonder, still a little dazed, if she’d imagined the whole thing.

But the ensuing chaos was confirmation enough that she hadn’t, and she watched as it overtook the auction hall, the people in the audience scrambling to get out, encumbered by the fallen bodies that sat slumped in their seats, out cold like the auctioneer at her feet. Getting a better overview of the fleeing crowd, she noticed that there were many who’d fallen, and there was half a second where Makino wondered if they were all dead.

The people in the audience had to be thinking the same, and she felt as their panic crashed against her, undiluted; the sheer, intense force of it making her stagger back a step, only to discover that the people who’d been on stage with her had all been freed of their shackles. She saw them, their white shifts singling them out from the other people trying to escape as they made to climb down from the stage. The guards who’d brought them out were on the ground, unmoving.

Her earlier rage still simmering under her skin, it was hard to find her bearings, confusion keeping her feet rooted while that fierce, furious recklessness urged her to _run_ , freedom at her fingertips now, and it didn't matter how.

She felt her breaths coming faster, desperation becoming will becoming _resolve_ , as she fixed her eyes on the stairs leading up towards the main entrance, her arms wrapped around her stomach and her decision made.

She was getting _out_.

A strong hand clamped down on her shoulder, startling her, and she whirled around to find Kikyo. Like her shackles, the collar around her neck was gone, and for a second, Makino could only stare at the empty space where it had been.

“We have a better chance of escaping if we scatter,” Kikyo said, even as reluctance flashed across her expression. Her good eye swept down, towards her stomach where Makino had circled it with her arms, and there was a moment where she seemed between decisions, before her features firmed again and she nodded. “I will secure us transportation away from this place. If you wish to come, I shall see that you will.” She met her eyes, her hand anchoring where it wrapped around her shoulder in a tight grip. “I would return your kindness,” she said, fiercely. “This world has little of that for women already. We must look out for each other. I shall see you brought home, and your little one.”

She made to move away, and Makino reacted. “Wait—!”

“Find me later!” Kikyo called over her shoulder, her voice straining to rise over the panic. “Grove twenty, two days from now at sundown. If I’m not there…” She looked around the auction hall, and the people still screaming in the rows. Her expression hardened, a grim resolve that only seemed emphasised by her bruises. “I will not be captured again. If they get me, they will be bringing back a corpse.” Makino gaped, but before she could protest, “But I will make sure my sisters are there,” Kikyo promised. “There will be someone waiting for you.”

She smiled. It was a brittle thing, although there was a ferocity in her one good eye that defied any suggestion of defeat. Makino could feel it in her whole presence, and even with a broken arm and no weapons, she had the sudden, unshakable impression Kikyo would have fought her way out without breaking a sweat.

She felt suddenly every bit of the strength she lacked, standing there in the thin white shift, the heavy collar around her neck and the baby kicking against her palms where she’d cupped them under her stomach. Her pathetic shield.

As though having read her thoughts on her face, “Hold fast, little one,” Kikyo said. “Remember that there is strength in little things.” She glanced up, as though at something behind her, before she told Makino, “He’ll get the collar off. That will be your chance.” She looked towards the exit, and the people nearly trampling each other to get out through the main entrance. “If there are any more guards, I will make sure the path is cleared for you.”

Then she was gone, wrapped up in the chaos of the fleeing audience, leaving Makino standing on the stage with the unconscious auctioneer, at a loss.

Willing her breathing to settle, she forced herself to remain calm as she swept her eyes across the auction hall, taking in her options. It came surprisingly easy, her panic not entirely dismissed but shoved to the back of her mind to be dealt with later. First, she had to get out of the auction house. Then once she was in the clear, she could let herself panic a bit.

It was a strange sort of practicality, given the situation, but it was also a foothold—something that felt like _her_ , whoever she was.

And her shield would hold, Makino decided, pressing her palms to her belly. She might not be a warrior, but she wasn’t without strength.

She considered the drop to the floor before the stage, her lips firming. If not for the baby, she might have attempted the jump, but she wouldn’t risk the fall hurting it, even if it was the quickest way off the stage.

She paused then, her breath expelled with a shudder as one of her hands shot from her stomach to the metal collar where it circled her neck. She still had no idea what they did, but she’d gathered that they were controlled remotely, somehow. If she escaped and they caught her while she was wearing it…

Her brow furrowed, recalling that Kikyo had mentioned something about removing the collar, but she couldn’t remember what.

Carefully touching her fingertips to it, Makino moved them along the side, finding what felt like an oddly shaped lock, although there was no mechanism that would open it. How did she get it _off_?

The presence at her back made her jump, and she spun around to find the man from earlier, as tangible as he’d been before he’d disappeared.

She hadn’t imagined him, then, although even knowing that didn’t help make sense of the situation, or give her any clues as to who he was or why he was even there.

He was standing among the fallen guards, still with that same, unhurried calm about him, as though he wasn’t the sole reason for the complete pandemonium that had disrupted the whole auction. And closer now, Makino saw that he was tall, and dressed casually—colourful bermudas and a loose shirt and sandals, a cloak hanging off his broad shoulders, and looking as though he’d merely wandered in from a stroll.

There was a part of her holding back what felt like a half-hysterical _laugh_.

He was still wearing that strange smile, the one she couldn’t quite read the feelings behind, although her first reaction upon seeing him wasn’t to step back. The dark eyes behind his glasses dropped to the collar around her neck, and despite there being no outward threat in his presence, when he lifted his hand to it, Makino couldn’t help her knee-jerk reaction as she flinched.

And with her eyes clenched shut, she didn’t see what he did, but she _felt_ it—that strange power from before, although it seemed more concentrated somehow, but she’d barely had time to recognise it before the collar suddenly came loose, the weight lifting off her shoulders as the pieces clattered to the floor at her feet.

Makino stared down at it, blinking.

Looking back up, she found the stranger watching her, still with that crooked smile. “You are free to go,” he said.

The words struck her with surprising force, ripping a breath from her chest, and in that moment she wasn’t sure how to react. She was still reeling from the auction, and everything that had just transpired. Now that she was _free—_

She glanced towards the entrance. Most of the audience had cleared the hall, except those that remained, slumped across their seats and the stairs. The guards on stage were still out cold, including the auctioneer.

She couldn't see the white-clad couple anywhere, the ones with the strange glass helmets, and was relieved. She could lose herself in the crowd with the others who’d escaped. She was small, and without the collar and the shackles, they might not spare her a second thought. She could get away before the guards woke up.

She thought of Kikyo’s offer. Grove twenty at sundown, in two days. And that couldn’t be too hard to locate, she thought, remembering the sign she’d seen painted on one of the trees when they’d disembarked. They must be in grove one, or at least close to it. She could find her way, but two whole days…

What was she going to do until then?

“I don’t know where,” Makino said, before she could stop herself.

She saw his eyes where they softened behind his glasses. And he looked kind, she thought. She had no idea who he was, or what stake he had in this business; didn’t know what he could possibly be gaining from interrupting auctions and setting everyone free. It had to be a dangerous gamble, and yet he’d walked into the auction house like it was his due. That kind of wilful recklessness, and from someone who looked old enough to have long since outgrown it, made her pause, although her wariness had trouble getting comfortable, watching him, as though there was a part of her that wanted instinctively to trust him.

His presence, she decided. There was something about it, something that made her unclench her shoulders and loosen her protective grip on her stomach a fraction. There was none of the greed she’d felt from the slavers, or from the people in the audience. There was no arrogance, either, which seemed in direct contradiction to his actions, but even prodding at it, she found nothing but quiet resolve, untouched by anything more sinister.

There was a slight shift in his young eyes, and a spark of curiosity in her mind, as though he’d noticed her silent examination, and she felt as his bemusement flickered with the beginnings of genuine intrigue.

Palms cupped under her stomach, Makino watched as he extended his hand towards her, his mouth crooking a bit further, as though at a private joke.

“I might know a place.”

 

—

 

She was busy neglecting her business when he walked through the door, a young girl in tow.

There was a joke already at the tip of her tongue, one that had grown comfortable over their years together— _my, boy scout, have you exchanged me for a younger model at last?_ —but it halted at the sight of her, huddled at her husband’s back as though she was trying to make herself as small as possible, her arms wrapped protectively around her noticeably pregnant stomach. Rayleigh had given her his cloak, and it dwarfed her tiny frame, the hem dragging along the floor as she walked.

But it was her face that made Shakky stop what she was doing—and then nearly drop the cigarette perched between her fingers, seized by the sight; one she hadn’t seen in nearly thirty years.

“Shakky,” Rayleigh greeted, smile too hard to hold any convincing good humour, although it was for the girl’s sake rather than her own that he attempted it. She knew him too well to be fooled by his easygoing facade. “Is the spare room available?”

She saw as his brows furrowed a bit, no doubt having caught her slip in composure, and then his surprise at her blatant demonstration of the fact.

It took her a second to compose herself, to drag her eyes away from that face, the dainty features and the doe-like eyes, but with her next breath she’d put out her smoke and put on a smile, noticing how the girl observed her surroundings, taking in the interior of her bar, which was empty, but then it was too early in the day for either of her trades to bring clients to her door.

And Shakky recognised the look on her face, the wary trust that resisted getting too comfortable, but then she’d been in this business most of her life. She knew without being told what that look suggested.

“I was hoping today would be an interesting one,” she said as she came out from behind the counter, mindful to keep her movements as calm as her voice, slipping into a familiar role like a favourite pair of boots.

She took in the girl, wrapped in Ray’s cloak. She was young—twenty, maybe, if that. She stood a good deal shorter than even Shakky, and next to Rayleigh, looked almost comically small, if not for the telling roundness of her stomach. A pale complexion, the tops of her cheeks lightly freckled, and her hair dark where it just barely brushed her shoulders, although her eyes were what compelled the most attention, large and lovely, a brown so dark they looked almost black.

It took conscious effort to keep from staring at her face, and to keep her own from giving away all her thoughts.

“I’d offer you a drink,” Shakky told her, gaze shifting to where her stomach curved under her shift, before lifting back up to her eyes, no falsity in her own good humour as she asked, “but what about something to eat instead?” She glanced at the cloak again, before flicking her eyes to Rayleigh. “And something a little better to wear.”

She was surprised by the girl’s reaction to that, as her hands shot up to grip the cloak tighter. “No!” When Shakky blinked, she flushed, as though she’d surprised herself with the outburst, before she murmured, “If—if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like keep wearing it a little longer.” She glanced up at Rayleigh as she said it, her expression hinting at embarrassment for asking, even as there was something fierce behind those dark eyes—defiance, almost, emphasised by the way her hands were fisted in the fabric.

Shakky hummed, the sound seeking to dismiss any suggestion of offence. “Finally, someone who doesn’t flinch at your terrible dress sense, Ray-san,” she mused, and saw that his answering smile made the girl relax a bit.

“Keep it,” he told her. Then to Shakky, his eyes twinkling, “To my wife’s chagrin, I have more than one.”

Shakky watched as a small smile flitted across her mouth, before her earlier wariness stole it back, but didn’t let it deter her as she gestured towards the back of the bar. And she didn’t reach out to touch her, simply went ahead, allowing her to follow if she wished.

She did so after a beat, her bare feet barely making a sound as she moved out of Rayleigh's shadow and further into the bar, towards the stairs where Shakky waited, a slight waddle in her step.

She didn’t speak as Shakky made to get the spare room ready, watching her from the doorway as she put new sheets on the bed, her hands cupped protectively under the swell of her stomach, worrying the thin fabric of her white shift, which screamed _auction house_ even without the haunted look in her eyes to confirm it, although Shakky found the glint of something like stubbornness behind it, and was glad. It was a harder way back for those who’d given up fighting.

Shakky didn’t ask her any questions, only talked, knowing it often brought comfort; the mentions of little, mundane things, reminding them that life had once been full of them. She talked about how dry the weather was this time of year and that she’d love a bit of rain for her garden; that she’d been stuck all morning on a word in the weekly crossword puzzle in the newspaper, and that she’d had nothing else to do because her monthly shipment of liquor was late.

The last mention had the girl looking up, eyes wide with surprise, as though she’d said something important, and Shakky almost did ask then, but curbed the impulse. And a moment later it was gone, her eyes hooding a bit, like a thought had slipped through her fingers at the last second.

When she’d made the bed, she made sure she had things to clean herself, and brought her a plate of food. She gave her some clothes so she could change out of her shift—one of Rayleigh’s old shirts and a loose pair of pants, but left them on the bed so she could change in private, and made a mental note to find her something better to wear later.

The girl still hadn’t said a word, but murmured her thanks as she left. She didn’t take off the cloak, which seemed to offer a curious kind of comfort, but Shakky didn’t pry. She’d long since learned that people found solace in vastly different things. For some it was a much-needed drink. Others sought small reminders of their old lives, like being allowed to read the morning paper at their own leisure, or enjoy the drag of a cigarette for the first time in years.

She didn’t know the girl’s story, and it wasn’t her business to ask, although never in the three decades she’d been doing this had she ever wanted to quite so badly.

Walking downstairs into the bar, she found Rayleigh seated at the counter, considering the newspaper she’d been reading before he’d arrived. Shakky saw that he’d jotted down the word she’d been struggling with in the crossword puzzle.

She went straight for the liquor shelf and the first bottle within reach, pouring two tumblers before tossing them both back. Moonshine, she discovered, and her own brew to boot. _Good_ , she thought, feeling the much-needed kick, which had all the tenderness of a brick to the face.

She poured a third tumbler, but before she could give it to Rayleigh, thought the better of it and knocked that back, too.

She felt the acute and dire need of a smoke, but thinking of the pregnant girl upstairs, curbed it.

The fourth glass she pushed across the counter towards him, ignoring his wry amusement where he observed her, not saying a word. And he waited for her to have poured herself another before he began to talk, still with that same calm, even as what he told her openly defied it.

Shakky was suddenly glad of the four drinks burning a hole through her stomach, as the full implication of what he was saying registered.

“You _interrupted_ an auction?”

When he only looked at her, she gaped, before blurting, “That’s reckless, even for you.”

If he found her reaction out of character, Rayleigh didn’t let on, although she caught the telling glint in his eyes behind his glasses, but didn’t begrudge him his amusement now. She was usually unflappable, even when it came to her husband’s antics, and with the things she’d seen in her line of work it would take a lot to rattle her, but today…

“You didn’t feel her,” Rayleigh said then, a bemused frown tugging at his features. And it wasn’t an excuse, because they were neither of them people who excused their own behaviour. Rather, it seemed to be something else, as though he was trying to make sense of his actions to himself.

Shakky watched as he considered his drink, the clear waters still untouched. She had half a mind to steal it, given what he was telling her. “That will, and that fury," he said, his eyes far away. "It was like she threw it out, although I don’t think she was aware she was doing it. But it reminded me of something.” He looked at her, and when her brows quirked with a silent question, smiled and said, “You. The second time our paths crossed, if I remember correctly.”

“The day I got shot and had my nose broken to hell,” Shakky agreed, before musing, “Good times.”

His smile remained for a beat, before he let it slip. “Observation is a double-edged sword. The burden of the feelings of others isn’t always something you can brush off. And there are some who feel more strongly than most.”

“Like her?” Shakky asked.

Rayleigh nodded, his expression heavy where he looked into his drink, as though seeing something else. “I couldn’t turn away from that. You may question the wisdom of my decision, but you didn’t feel her, Shakky. If you had…”

He trailed off, and Shakky said nothing to that, although she thought she didn’t need to have felt it to know what had prompted that response in him. She’d found enough on the girl’s face; an open canvas to her emotions.

Rayleigh smiled then, lifting his drink to his lips as he regarded her from behind the rim. “Maybe I’ve become a sentimental old man. I can’t turn down a pretty girl in need.”

“That didn’t come with age,” she retorted, smiling. “Although you used to hide it better. So aloof. When I was in need, I was hard pressed to read anything conclusive from your actions.”

He grinned. “I’ve been working to make myself more clear,” he said. “Haven’t you noticed?”

“Your seduction still needs a little work,” she countered, as she refilled his glass. “Instead of flowers, you bring me strays.”

“My mistake,” he laughed, reaching for his drink as she pushed it into his hand, his thumb brushing across her wrist. “Here I thought you liked strays.”

Her mouth quirked. “Fishing for a compliment, Ray-san? You know you’ve always been my favourite stray.”

“I should hope so,” he said, his eyes gleaming. “We’ve been married ten years.”

“Still no reason to assume,” she quipped, and when he laughed, took the chance to steal his glasses from his nose.

His smile eased into something softer, as he watched her wipe them clean. “Jokes aside, I apologise for the inconvenience,” he told her, honestly. “I don’t mean to jeopardise your business.”

Shakky waved him off, eyes on the glasses in her hand as she polished them with a corner of her shirt. “Never fear, old heart. I have my ways, should anyone come sniffing. They might think the roots of their corrupt trade run as deep as the mangroves, but they’re tangled with mine. You’d sooner remove one than the other.” She smiled, and placing them back on his nose, brushed her fingertips along his jaw, to give a playful tug at his beard; the small, familiar intimacies of old souls whose own roots had grown together. “I will manage.”

She didn’t worry about that, although he did have a point. There was a reason they kept their business mostly in the dark; that they didn’t break out every single slave brought to the human market. The right people knew how to find her, and how to keep her from being found. That was how she’d cultivated the soil of her business, and how her roots had grown as deep as they had. She made people disappear the same way the traffickers did. She offered an escape to those who came looking. New papers, new identities. A way out. She could save more people that way than if she walked up to the auction house doors and threatened to burn it down.

Of course, there was a part of her that remembered when she’d used to do just that—when she’d opened the cages with her own two hands, and had thrown the torch that would sink the ships. When she’d been younger, and bolder. Not more righteous, but more proactive, maybe. More foolhardy, definitely, but slavery wasn’t a system that was brought down overnight, or by the rash actions of a single person, and Shakky had to be just as enduring if she wanted to see the end of it.

Remembering how she’d been brought about another memory, and her thoughts went to the girl upstairs. She couldn’t hear her moving about, and wondered if she’d gone to sleep. She hoped she had.

“Shakky?” When she looked at him, it was to find Rayleigh frowning. “What’s wrong?”

She wondered if she should tell him—to bring up that part of her past that she’d spent twenty years trying not to think about too closely, wondering if she’d made the right decision, even as it kept finding her, in small reminders. Every time a new shipment brought a particular crate of liquor, or one of her customers stepped through her doors, a baby at the breast. She’d told him once, twenty years ago, but hadn’t brought it up since.

But they didn’t keep secrets from each other. They didn’t always tell each other everything, but in all the years they’d known each other, and all the years they’d been married, they’d always been _honest_ with each other.

“She looks just like her,” she said at length. When Rayleigh’s frown deepened, she sighed. “The baby I found that time, I told you about her mother—the one I helped escape once, who came back and left her daughter on my doorstep.”

She saw as his brows climbed up, before his gaze shifted to the stairs. “Her?”

Shakky shrugged. “It might not be. But her age is right. She’d be twenty this year." She knew, because there hadn't been a year she hadn't counted. "And she’s…” She didn’t know how to explain it, that unshakable sense of familiarity; that she just _knew_.

Not knowing how else to describe it, “She looks just like her mother,” she repeated quietly.

She remembered the tiny baby girl with the dark eyes, who’d slept in one of her liquor crates as she’d worked, wrapped in the little blanket with the birds, sewn from the patches of an old blouse. She still had it, tucked away upstairs.

“The girl you gave to Garp,” Rayleigh said, and Shakky nodded heavily. “Did you ever ask where he took her?”

She shook her head. “Never.” Then, wryly, “Not that I’ve had the chance. Monkey-chan doesn’t exactly stop by for a drink.” _Not anymore_ , followed the thought, along with a pang of old hurt.

Rayleigh’s expression told her it hadn’t slipped him by. “You could ask her,” he said, flicking his gaze to the ceiling, his eyes drifting a bit, as though he was listening for something, before he added, with a small smile, “Once she wakes up.”

Shakky nodded, and considered the empty glass in front of her. And she didn’t usually ask, where they came from or who they were. It had never been her business to pry, but this was an unusual case. She felt it in her whole body, the uncanny sense that her life had taught her to be familiar with, the one that resisted the notion of _coincidence_ , although she’d never quite been able to call it by its name, even as she couldn’t help but wonder.  _Fate_.

_Isn’t that what you’d call it, Roger?_

 

—

 

He’d barely slept in three days.

He couldn’t close his eyes. Every time he did, the thought of her resurfaced, but not just the way Shanks remembered her, soft hands and shy kisses and laughing brown eyes. Now all he could see were those same hands in shackles, and her eyes wide and frightened, each scenario worse than the last, until he couldn’t bear being in his own mind.

He’d stepped out on deck to clear his head, unable to endure another minute in his own quarters, the bulkheads pressing in around him until he felt like he was about to suffocate, everywhere a reminder of her; the books tucked into the alcove above his bunk, and Siren in her sheath, that clear steel-song silenced, although Shanks hadn't touched her since Loguetown, and couldn't bring himself to do it now.

Even the things that weren't hers made him think of her. A discarded shirt, and he saw her bare back as she sat on the edge of his bunk one morning, bending down to pull it off the floor, to slip her arms through the over-long sleeves. Shanks recalled how it had hung off her tiny frame as she'd stretched, hiding the freckles he'd been mapping where he'd watched her from the rumpled sheets, her grin shyly teasing as she'd caught his gaze over her shoulder and asked, _do you just strip and leave your clothes where they are? Who cleans up after you? Ben?_

There was the untouched razor that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to use, remembering her tongue caught between her teeth as she'd concentrated, a little hand holding his chin in place and her small body in the circle of his arm as she'd slid the blade across his cheek, quietly determined in that way she had about her, the one that had often made him think there was nothing she couldn't do if she put her mind to it.

 _Sure you haven't done this before?_ he'd asked her, grinning. _You're a natural._

 _Don’t talk!_ she'd chided, her laughter startled, before it had softened with the rest of her as she'd leaned into him, murmuring,  _I might accidentally cut you._

The maps atop his desk, and he remembered the searching trail of dainty fingers, tracing the outline of islands she’d never heard of as he told her about the places he'd visited, the sights he'd seen and the trouble he'd found, the words seeming always on the tip of his tongue, ready to ask her. _Come with me next time._

 _Which one is your favourite?_ she'd asked, looking at the islands across the map, and had ducked her head to hide her delight when he’d wrapped his fingers around hers and placed them atop the little shape in East Blue marked ‘Dawn’.

The fresh air helped him catch his breath, and for a short spell, the warm sea spray wetting his cheeks offered relief, except the vast openness was its own form of unbearable as he stood at the bow, not trapped but still paralysed, and Shanks honestly couldn’t say which was worse.

The horizon revealed nothing, just sea and a sky with no end. And he'd always loved the unabashed _nakedness_ of open water, no land in sight, restless heart moored by the sense that the world was nothing more than the ship under his feet, that it could take him anywhere he liked, but since her, his concept of _home_ had changed, and to something more than what was immediately at his fingertips. Now, home was a firm place in his mind; was a port and a girl and the circle of a pair of small arms. He’d anchored a vital part of himself there, in her, and he’d never in his life felt more rootless than he did without it.

And always, the reminder kept coming back, one that didn’t need anything tangible to resurface; the knowledge that he’d left more than just his heart with her—that she was carrying his child, and that he was going to be a father.

He still grappled with that truth, and found himself constantly shying away from it. It hurt just acknowledging it, the fact that she’d been so happy, and what was worse, that _he_ would have been the same, but he could barely bring himself to think about it now, when he didn’t know where in the world they were, or in what state.

He couldn’t stand it; the image of her on a slave ship somewhere, or in an auction house. And he’d never witnessed an auction in person, but he’d heard his share of stories, and knew what kind of people frequented places like that.

She’d never even been off the docks. She’d never wanted to set out to sea, or to see the world; had loved to listen to him talk about what he’d seen, and share the stories he knew, the dirty sea shanties he’d gathered, singing to her until she was out of breath from laughter or blushing to her roots, but she’d never desired that life for herself.

He couldn’t even imagine what she must be feeling. His own first experience with the sea had been terrifying enough, and he’d been fully prepared to face it; had been happy to do so, exhilarated by the fear of the unknown to the point where he’d craved it. All Makino had ever wanted was peace, and stability; the bar she loved, and the port that held it. The people in it.

And him, however little he deserved it.

Shanks wondered if she was scared. She had to be, anyone would be, but she was also fiercely practical, and resourceful. She’d look for a way out, he she knew would; knew she wouldn’t give up, but just the thought that she should have to endure it, that this should have happened to her in the first place, made it a hollow comfort. There was no room for assurances when he could barely breathe past his own fury.

He had to find her. And his ship was fast, but this sea was wilful, and it was _killing_ him that it was taking them so long.

Restless to the point of screaming, he turned for the galley, unable to take looking at the horizon for another second. And he didn’t know if he’d get any answers, but anything was better than the unbearable silence that was all the sea had to offer him. And she’d always been indifferent, and Shanks had always know that, knew as well as any sailor that she favoured no man or woman, but he couldn’t help but feel the unfairness of it all, that the sea should be indifferent to _her,_ as though anything in this world could know that heart and be unmoved.

He found Ben in the galley with Yasopp and the others, a map spread out on the table between them. They sounded like they’d been arguing, their voices raised almost to shouting, but they all looked up as he entered, their conversation cut short, and the sudden silence that descended seemed louder than their disagreement.

No one was drinking. For some reason, that seemed the starkest difference, and if Shanks was the heart, the galley of his ship was the liver, although the body of his crew seemed reduced to a husk of what it usually was, hollowed-out from within, and no laughter to fill it.

For a moment, Shanks just looked at them, before pushing away from the door, although he didn’t move to take a seat between them as he approached the table with the map.

It was old, and probably a little outdated. Even the Government’s cartographers hadn’t mapped out all the islands in the world, but knowing Ben, it was the best they had. Shanks saw that there were several points marked across it. Auction houses, he realised a moment later, before Ben confirmed it.

“These are the ones I’ve located so far,” he said, even as he hadn’t asked. “Sabaody is still our best bet, but if it doesn’t yield anything, we should start looking here.” He pointed to an island on the map, although Shanks couldn’t seem to take in the name where it was scrawled along the coastline, too focused on the bright red cross that had been put there.

“I’m trying to make a comprehensive list,” Ben continued, looking up to meet his eyes. Shanks saw that he looked tired, and was refusing to acknowledge it. “We should be prepared, if Sabaody turns out to be a dead end.”

Shanks didn’t nod, and couldn’t even will his voice to speak his agreement, hating that they couldn’t do more for her, faster, even as he knew they were doing everything they could.

“Any word from Garp?” Ben asked then, and Shanks saw how they all looked to him, their expressions trying very hard not to be hopeful, even as he could still feel it sparking at the mention.

He managed to shake his head this time, and his voice sounded about as exhausted as he felt. “Nothing.” He looked at Ben, and even if he didn’t know if he wanted the answer, “Rayleigh?”

Ben’s expression was grim, and Shanks watched as his gaze dropped back to the map, and the red circle drawn around Sabaody, next to the Red Line. “No luck so far. I’ve been trying to find information on him, but all my attempts have been unsuccessful. It doesn’t help that I don’t have any contacts there. I can’t even figure out if he’s really on Sabaody. As far as anyone is concerned, Silvers Rayleigh is a legend.” He tapped his cigarette against the ashtray; Shanks saw that his fingers were shaking, but he seemed to be holding himself in check by sheer force of will. “As for his wife, she’s there, but she’s impossible to get a hold of. People who know her keep their mouths shut.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, a harsh breath expelled as he dragged his fingers through his hair. “It’s like a web. The more I twist, the more questions I ask, the tighter it gets. As it stands, I don't think I'll get anything conclusive until we get there.” He looked up at Shanks as he spoke the last bit, knowing it wasn't what he wanted to hear, but also that it needed to be said. And Ben dealt in hard truths, was too pragmatic for miracles, but he was also one of the most stubborn people Shanks knew. Defeat wasn't an option for problem solvers of his first mate's calibre. He'd just look for a different strategy, until there were none left.

And for her, Shanks didn't think Ben would ever stop looking.

“Garp might have more luck where they're concerned," Ben said then. "It'll take him as long as it'll take us to get there, but if he finds a way to contact them sooner, I’m guessing he’ll let us know.”

Shanks said nothing, eyes fixed on Sabaody on the map. He thought of her hand again, small and softly calloused, and just big enough to cover Dawn Island with her palm. _Which one is your favourite?_

"Boss." Someone let loose a harsh breath, as though they'd been holding it, and the words. “If they hurt her—”

The unspoken threat was met with loud agreement, rekindling the outrage he’d felt walking in, and Shanks didn’t know whether to shut it down or just let it take him, their anger rising, lashing against his senses. It was better than the numbness, was better than feeling crippled, even as it was far from a relief, carrying the weight of it all atop his own when it was already taking every bit of strength he had not to buckle under the pressure.

But he wasn't surprised by their reaction, or how visceral it was. They all remembered. His crew hadn’t grown much since they’d set out from East Blue, and even the ones who’d yet to meet her knew who she was, courtesy of eagerly shared stories, and a song he couldn’t even bring himself to think about. They all knew her, and loved her; the gentle hands and the kind heart that had loved them all back, and they all knew their world could care less about either. And if she'd found their protectiveness endearing once, it bore no resemblance to _this_ , which left no room for compromise, or mercy. Shanks didn't think Makino would have liked it, that she would have liked them like this, but his regret had no foothold when all he could feel was fury.

And even if it was better than feeling numb, he could barely stomach the rage, thinking that they’d _hurt_ her, knowing that she had no way of fighting back; that even if she was practical to a fault and had a stronger will than most, she was still so small. And you could break someone's body before their will, Shanks knew, but couldn't bear the thought of them breaking her in either way. He knew the things that were done on slave ships; knew that young girls were often broken at the hands of their captors before they even reached the auction houses. And rape was a violation that could break even the strongest.

He thought about the way she'd guarded herself, in the beginning; the intimacy that had scared her so much, and the way she'd trusted him with it, her heart and her body.

He lost his grip on himself a little, in that moment, so angry he felt short of breath. If the ones who'd taken her had so much as put their hands on her—

Ben met his eyes then, the look like a tether pulling him back. And his expression suggested that he was withholding something, as though uncertain of whether or not he should say it.

“What?” Shanks asked hoarsely, and immediately wanted to take it back. He didn’t know how it could get any worse—didn’t think it could, although was afraid to prod too much at that thought, in case he was proven wrong again.

“Since she’s pregnant,” Ben began, and Shanks flinched back at the mention, but Ben continued, undeterred, “they might go easy on her.”

He felt the tension in the galley, their outrage far from soothed, although the reminder that she was pregnant had their fury stuttering, as though yanked by a leash. And it was a colder anger that replaced it, one that seemed too much for them to put into words.

But Shanks recognised why Ben had said it. And he didn’t know if it was a kindness, but he’d take anything. He’d take whatever scraps of comfort he could wring from the situation, and for Makino's sake, hope that Ben was right—that as long as she was pregnant, they wouldn’t harm her, for fear of harming the child. They wouldn’t brand her. At least not yet.

He thought he might have to step out to be sick, the prospect of that happening suddenly too much, but he managed to regain control of himself, if only enough to keep his meagre breakfast down.

He'd seen those brands, and the slaves who bore them; the red hoof-mark which seemed seared into his retina now, imagining it on Makino.

It took physical effort reining himself in, and it wasn't bile pushing up his chest now but rage, and so violent it left him reeling.

He saw that some of the others were thinking the same—felt it in the air, which didn't exactly help soothe his own temper. And not all of them knew about the Celestial Dragons’ practice of branding their slaves, but the ones who did know looked like they were struggling to hold themselves in check.

Shanks didn’t know if he had the strength to explain it to the ones who didn't know. Just thinking about it was bad enough; putting it into words seemed beyond his current capabilities.

He had to reach her before that happened. He wouldn't be able to live with himself if he failed her, if he was too late and he lost their child, and they put that brand on her. The perfect, unmarred back in his memory, her soft skin and the freckles he'd loved to kiss. It had never been meant for that burden; for the pain and the indignity that no living being deserved. It wasn't just a scar; wasn't just something that healed and was forgotten. She’d live with the reminder for the rest of her life. Assuming he even found her alive.

“If she’s at seven months, that gives us approximately eight weeks,” Ben said then, and Shanks found him looking at the map, his eyes elsewhere and his thoughts concealed by his expression, even as he knew Ben was thinking about the brand. “We’ll have reached Sabaody by then, barring any unforeseen circumstances.” He looked up, meeting his eyes. “We might make it before they move her. Or if we don’t, we might figure out who—took her.”

He didn’t say _bought_ , but the slight hesitation was worse, Shanks thought.

“If it’s a Celestial Dragon,” Yasopp spoke up then, drawing all the eyes in the galley towards him, to find his gaze fixed on the map, no mercy in that murderous focus, his arms in a tight cross as he said, “they’ll take her to Mariejois.”

It was both a question and it wasn’t, inquiring what they’d do if it turned out to be the case, while still suggesting that Yasopp knew the answer, and had already accepted it. And Shanks saw the same resolve on the faces of the others, watching him from across the galley; felt it, that terrible conviction, which was at once entirely reckless, and wholly unflinching.

Gryphon weighed heavy with her kerchief, and finding the Holy Land on the map, Shanks felt his fingers tightening around the back of the chair he was gripping, his knuckles white from the pressure he was putting on it as he said, roughly, “Then I’ll burn it to the ground, if that's what it takes to find her.”

Then to Ben, “Exhaust whatever options we have,” he said, as he turned for the door, needing air, and the sea, even as both things made him sick, imagining where Makino might be, and he’d never hated the open horizon but he could barely stand the sight of it now, and the distance that felt like it couldn’t be closed soon enough, an irony that seemed particularly cruel, but he would have gladly taken ten years twice over in a heartbeat if it meant she would have been safe, and unharmed.

He still couldn't do anything, nothing to save her or protect her, could only bide his time until they got more information, and even that was no guarantee. But until he could do more, he had no choice but to wait and try to bear it, although while there were still several truths he was struggling to come to terms with, his impending fatherhood being one of them, there was one exception.

That the lengths he was willing to go to get them back had long since stopped fazing him.

 

—

 

She woke to a warm bed, between soft sheets, feeling disoriented.

Blinking her eyes open, she peered up at the ceiling, and it took her a few tries to remember where she was and how she’d gotten there, and then a few seconds just to calm herself down. But the mattress beneath her remained soft, like the sheets wrapped around her, and the cloak she'd fallen asleep in. They didn’t disappear, or become damp stone and straw. The wood panelling on the walls didn’t become the bulkheads of a ship, or iron bars when she blinked her eyes, and the little room remained steady. Nothing swayed, and it didn’t smell of sea and sweat and vomit.

Reaching for her stomach, Makino felt out the shape of it, and breathed a little sigh of relief when she felt the baby moving under her hand.

Then, and more pressing than the hunger gnawing at her stomach and her parched throat, felt the acute and painful need to use the bathroom.

She was glad of the desperate urge a second later, as it didn’t allow her to hesitate, pushing her instead off the bed and out of the room in search of somewhere to relieve it. But for all her graceless awakening, no one came looking, and with a few minutes of ensured privacy, she took her time coming properly awake, taking in her new surroundings and listening to the sounds from downstairs. She could hear footsteps, and the soft clink of glasses, and reaching out from within herself, she felt them—the man who’d saved her, who’d brought her from the auction house, and the woman who owned the bar where he'd taken her.

Makino sensed her moving about, and found her presence to be similar to her husband’s—calm, and steady. Welcoming, even as it took a bit more courage than it had to go to the bathroom to will herself to go downstairs.

She'd left the cloak on the bed, but still in the oversized shirt she’d borrowed, she waddled carefully down the steps, ever-aware of her stomach and the child within, but coming to the landing, she stopped, halted by a voice drifting up from the bar below.

“—guess where she came from?”

It was the woman who’d spoken, and Makino paused, one foot ready on the next step. Were they talking about her?

“Could be anywhere,” came the man’s voice. _Rayleigh_ , she remembered vaguely, from his introduction. “They bring them here from all over. She could be from either of the blues, or somewhere in Paradise.”

“What about the child?”

There was a long beat before he answered. “Hard to say without asking her. It could be from before she was captured, although it wouldn’t be the first time a young girl has suffered the abuse of her captors in such a way. It happens.”

There was an edge to the warm timbre of his voice; Makino felt it in her mind, and her hand shook where she pressed it to her stomach, bile nudging up her throat before she swallowed it down. And she’d already considered that to be the case, but to hear someone else saying it...

“We might get a word out,” the woman said then. “If someone is looking for her, they’ll want to know she’s here.” A pause followed, before she added, her voice lowered in a way that made Makino wonder if they’d heard her coming, “If you can get a hold of him, Monkey-chan might be of help. And...for the other thing we discussed, too. Regarding her.”

The words had a cold sweat breaking out across her back, and it took Makino a second to understand why, and why it didn’t feel like a relief, but just the thought of anyone finding out where she was made her want to run.

Would they report her to the authorities? It didn’t seem likely, given their occupation, although Makino hadn’t deduced much where that was concerned, other than that Rayleigh had saved her from being auctioned off, and his wife hadn’t seemed all that shaken by him bringing her home.

But what if the authorities found out anyway? She didn’t know what they did with escaped slaves, but just the fact that slavery was allowed to exist unopposed said enough. They might be more eager to get her back in shackles than they’d be to help her discover where she’d come from, let alone take her back, and that was even supposing there was anything to go back _to_.

She didn’t know if anyone was looking for her, and if they were, couldn’t remember if they were any better than the ones who’d taken her. What if they were worse? She had no way of knowing. If someone were to tell her they knew who she was, she had no way of verifying it, with no memories to back up their claims. What if someone were to use her memory loss against her? To claim that they knew her, that they were taking her home, but in reality they’d just be taking her back to another cell, or a different auction house?

She didn’t know who this _Monkey-chan_ was, but didn’t think she wanted to know. Suddenly, Makino felt certain of that.

She felt her own rising panic, and tried to calm herself down. She was safe here, at least for the time being. She didn’t have to say anything to them about her memory loss. Perhaps if they didn’t know, she’d have some control over the situation. The little information she did have, she didn’t have to share. The less they knew, the safer she’d be, whatever she decided to do from here.

But she felt it, then—the pressing need to be elsewhere, to go somewhere she could hide, where she was sure she’d be safe, and on her own terms. Somewhere the slavers couldn’t find her, or whoever else might be looking.

She couldn’t trust anyone without question. She could barely trust herself, but that would have to be enough, until she could get away from this place.

It took a few deep breaths to get her feet moving, and she knew they’d heard her coming before she’d descended the steps, finding them glancing up from their conversation to take in her arrival.

Makino looked at the woman behind the counter, taking in her pitch black hair where it curved under her ears, and the dark eyes that observed her from beneath her thick lashes. She had a curiously ageless face. Every time she tried to pin an age to her, she’d change her mind, like it was always shifting, never quite getting comfortable, a trick of the light making her seem young one moment, old the next.

She wasn’t smoking now, and her smile warmed along her mouth. “Good morning,” she said, and Makino found her voice to be as enigmatic as her appearance, calm on the surface, but with an undercurrent of something that suggested amusement, although it ran too deep to say for sure.

She was in the middle of polishing glasses, Makino saw, gaze lingering a moment longer on the crystal whiskey tumblers and long-stemmed wine glasses where they’d been stacked, bottoms up along the countertop.

Rayleigh was seated on one of the barstools, reading the newspaper. He offered Makino a smile, no less warm than how he felt in her mind, although she couldn’t help feeling wary now, remembering the conversation she’d overheard coming down.

She looked around the bar, seeing it properly for the first time. She’d been too exhausted when she’d first arrived to notice much of anything, but something pricked at the back of her mind now, observing the empty tables, and the glossy wooden counter; the green and brown bottles of liquor and the glasses. The interior was mostly bare wooden floors and walls, no excess paint or decorations taking up space, although there was a large plush sofa tucked against the wall opposite the counter.

The soft cushions looked tempting, but she opted for one of the barstools instead, easing herself onto it with a little effort as she supported her stomach, and murmured her thanks when the woman wordlessly pushed a glass of water across the bar towards her.

Makino realised suddenly that she didn’t know her name. She had the vague inclination that she’d seen it on the sign out front, but couldn’t recall what it was.

“Shakuyaku,” she said, as though she’d realised where her thoughts had gone, and Makino looked up, surprised, only to find her smiling. Then with a gleam in her eyes that made her look startlingly young, “Or Shakky, if you’d rather. I forgot to introduce myself yesterday.” Her smile was warmly amused, and reflected in her eyes where she flicked them to Rayleigh. “I’m so used to people knowing my name, it didn’t occur to me that you might not.”

Rayleigh said nothing, only smiled as he turned his attention back to the newspaper, although Makino had the sudden thought that there'd been a silent exchange between them.

 _Shakky._ And she hadn’t asked for her name in return, she realised. There wasn’t even the suggestion that she expected it.

She felt a little reluctant speaking it, as though giving up a part of herself, and one of the few that were hers. But she remembered her calm efficiency when Rayleigh had brought her in; the way she’d helped her find her footing without touching her or asking questions she couldn’t answer, and watching her now, still not having made a single demand of her, Makino felt suddenly inclined to give her something.

And clearing her throat softly, “Makino,” she said, quietly but surely. It was the first time she’d spoken it out loud, but found it sat with surprising ease on her tongue.

 _Something_ passed through her eyes at that, but it was gone before she could register that it had even been there.

“Makino,” Shakky repeated, smiling, even as her voice sounded suddenly thick. “That’s a lovely name.”

Rayleigh glanced up, as though having caught the shift in her voice, too. Makino saw how his brows furrowed a bit, but he said nothing.

“How are you feeling?” Shakky asked then, when she’d finished her glass. The question was carefully vague, allowing her an opening if she wanted it.

She was tempted to take it, but, “Better,” Makino said instead, the answer no less vague, although it wasn’t a lie. She felt rested, and she wasn’t in shackles. The worn shirt and trousers were far too big, but she thought she would have gladly worn them for the rest of her life if it meant she’d never again have to wear one of those white shifts.

“You look well,” Shakky agreed. “Pregnant women always have a natural glow. Don’t you think so, Ray-san?”

His glasses sitting low on his nose, Rayleigh lifted his eyes to Makino with a smile, before flicking them back to Shakky. “Indeed. Although it could just be the glow of youth. Missing yours?”

“ _Oof._ That’s cold, old boy,” she said, clicking her tongue, although Makino didn’t think she sounded particularly offended. “You’ll be in the doghouse at this rate.”

His smile stretched wider, lifting his glasses, although he was looking at the crossword puzzle when he said, “I never know what you mean when you say that.”

Shakky hummed; a small, laughing sound. “That’s half the fun.”

Looking between them, Makino felt suddenly uncomfortable, as though having trespassed on something fiercely private, although their good-natured teasing didn’t seem at all hindered by the fact that they had company.

It was the kind of ease that wanted to make her shoulders relax, but she felt stubbornly resistant. Just because there were no shackles around her wrists didn’t mean there couldn’t be again. She didn’t know the circumstances that had landed her on that slave ship in the first place, if she’d trusted someone she shouldn’t have and paid dearly for it, but the little she’d learned since she’d arrived here hadn’t taught her to be careless.

“So, Makino-chan. How far along are you?” Shakky asked then, the question bringing her back from where her thoughts had wandered, ever in those endless circles.

She still wasn’t smoking, Makino noticed. She wondered if it was because of her.

Realising what she'd asked, she remembered suddenly that terrible examination, the hands on her and the physician’s curt, almost indifferent remarks, and had to keep from flinching at the memory. “Around seven months,” she said, with some difficulty.

Shakky only nodded. Her expression didn’t let slip that she’d caught it, although Makino had a sense that few things escaped that clever gaze. “It’s not long until you’re due, then. Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”

She wondered if the questions were meant to distract her, or if she was trying to root out something specific, but, “I don’t know,” Makino said honestly, lacing her fingers together over her stomach. Beneath her palms, the baby was quiet. “I’ll be happy with either.”

The truth was that she hadn’t really thought about it that much. She wondered if she had, before she’d lost her memories—if there’d been a time where she’d dreamed about what the sex would be, or what they would look like, and what she might name them.

She didn’t know if it made her sad or not, not knowing. Perhaps, like the father, if she hadn’t wanted it—if her pregnancy hadn’t been a source of joy, but the opposite—it was a good thing that she couldn’t remember. She’d made her choice now, either way. It didn’t matter what she’d thought once; if she’d loved or hated her child, or if she’d imagined herself a daughter, or a son.

Right?

Looking up, she caught the glance passing between them, and wondered if they could tell what she was feeling, and if it was obvious to everyone else that she was as lost as she felt.

She needed something to distract herself, before she accidentally blurted something she shouldn’t.

Her gaze went to the glasses Shakky was polishing, and she spoke before she could think. “Could I—” She stopped, suddenly embarrassed.

“What?” Shakky asked.

Makino felt how her cheeks heated, and didn’t know why. It had been the same with Rayleigh’s cloak; she couldn’t explain her own reaction, could only _react_. “This might sound weird, but could I…help?” She pointed to the glasses, and hoped she wouldn’t have to explain herself further.

If she found it an odd request, Shakky didn’t let on, merely reached behind the counter for a clean towel. “I won’t turn down assistance when it’s offered so kindly,” she said, putting it on the countertop for Makino to take. “Have fun.”

Makino hesitated a beat before reaching towards it, and saw how her fingers shook as she curled them around the stem of a wine glass, the other gripping the dish towel.

And she felt their eyes on her, but tried to ignore their curiosity as she set about polishing the glass, happy with the small occupation as Shakky turned her attention to what looked like a list of inventory, while commenting on the open page of the newspaper where it was spread across the countertop.

Makino listened to them talking—something about a crossword puzzle, and a disagreement about number fourteen down (“I’ll wager your still unpaid tab it’s not _that_ ,” Shakky said, stealing his glasses from his nose in retaliation to his laughing objection). It seemed like a curiously mundane thing for them to be occupied with, given what she’d seen Rayleigh do at the auction house, and the little she’d gathered about his wife’s particular trade. And observing them from out of the corner of her eye, Makino wondered again if they were doing it for her sake, and if they’d be discussing something else entirely if she wasn’t there.

She thought again of the snippet of conversation she’d overheard, and quickly turned her focus back to the glass in her hands.

Not now. Later, she’d think about that and what it meant for her, but right now she’d take the small moment of peace she’d been given, by people who didn’t appear to mean her harm.

She polished the first glass to gleaming, before she moved on to the next, and found the repetitive action soothing, helping her racing heart to settle and her breaths to come a little easier, until she’d centred her focus completely, and the quiet conversation of the two people beside her faded beyond hearing.

And in that moment, the morning sun warming her back through the window, Makino felt her shoulders relaxing, bit by bit, glass by polished glass, until she was no longer thinking about it—that she couldn’t remember; that she had no idea where in the world she was or where she’d come from, or that it had ever mattered that she knew.

Of course, with everything that was still unclear, all the things she didn’t know and wondered if she ever would, the one thing she knew for certain about her new life, whatever her old one had been, was that she could never truly forget the fact that she couldn’t remember.

 

—

 

The next morning, she was up before the sun. Where exhaustion had forced her to rest that first night, the second had been spent listening to the sounds of Shakky’s bar, her fingers fisted in the covers as she’d tracked the people coming and going. It had been a busy night, and she’d spent it growing more and more restless with every chime of the doorbell, wondering if someone would be coming upstairs to collect her, or if any of the people walking across their threshold would be the person they’d talked about contacting, for whatever reason.

She’d known already before she’d retired to bed that she couldn’t stay. It was still nearly a whole day until she was due to meet up with Kikyo, but Makino felt it in her whole body; the certainty that she had to leave, and soon. It was like an itch, and she rubbed the skin around her wrists where she still felt the imprint of the shackles, until it was raw and hurting.

She had to get away from this place—from these people who were so deeply entrenched in this business that she wanted nothing to do with for as long as she lived.

She’d washed her hair, and it was still a little damp where she’d tucked it behind her ears. Shakky had given her some new clothes the day before, as though having anticipated their necessity somehow; comfortable suede pants with a loose waist, and soft leather boots and a pretty coat, with a deep hood if she needed to hide her face, although the coat itself did little to conceal her stomach, but then nothing short of a ship’s canvas would manage that, Makino thought wryly.

She felt a pang of regret for stealing away without even saying _thank you_ , but couldn’t shake the reluctance she felt, considering it. If she told them she was leaving, they might try to convince her to stay—or worse, might try to keep her. She might miss Kikyo altogether, and even if it wasn’t much to go on, her promise was the only alternative she had if she wanted to get away from Sabaody.

She looked at Rayleigh’s cloak where she’d folded it up on the bed, and felt suddenly reluctant at the thought of leaving it behind, remembering the weight of it around her shoulders, which nagged at her, for some reason she couldn't explain. He’d offered it as a courtesy, but it had been more than a simple comfort, although she had no idea what had prompted that feeling, or her visceral reaction at the prospect of parting with it; as though her body remembered something her mind couldn't.

Clenching her eyes shut, she shook her head, turning for the door before she could do something reckless, like steal it. _It’s just a cloak._

Taking care not to make any noise, she closed the door behind her, her mind cleared and focused despite her lack of sleep, aware of her surroundings in a way she’d gotten increasingly more used to since waking up on the slaver. She felt out the structure of the house, the deep roots of the mangroves and the sea around them, like drawing a map in her mind, until she could say with unnerving certainty which planks would creak and which wouldn’t, or just how much weight to apply to certain steps on the stairs.

The baby was awake and moving, but Makino pushed the small distraction away where it sought to find her—that she could somehow feel it, too, odd as that sensation was, the little shape seeming almost tangible, like she could trace the outline of it with her eyes closed; the tiny feet, and the little elbows and knees where it was curled up—and focused instead on what was outside of her rather than within, although it wasn’t easy, when the thought of it was always at her fingertips, like an extension of herself.

She’d wondered if it was normal; that awareness. Maybe all mothers felt like this, or maybe it was just her imagination, trying to fill the empty gaps in her mind.

Padding downstairs, she found the bar empty, the first few tendrils of a lazy morning sun just having begun to creep through the windows, to chase away the shadows, although the assurance that she was alone came from the fact that she could still feel Shakky upstairs. Rayleigh had left, and where he was, Makino didn’t know, but thought it was probably for the best. He’d seemed uncannily perceptive, even more so than his wife. She didn’t think she would have been able to sneak out without him noticing.

But no one intercepted her as she made for the front door, and there was no sound or movement from the apartments above the bar. And right then, standing there with her fingers curled around the doorknob and freedom just a few steps away, Makino hesitated.

Her fingers shook, thinking about the kindness they’d showed her, and the hands that had taken such care not to touch her. The shelter she’d been offered without question, and the feeling, brief as it had been, sitting in the sunlight polishing those glasses, of being _safe_.

“Thank you, Shakky-san,” she murmured, stealing one last look at the bar as she put it behind her, at the glasses and the bottles of liquor, her lips firming as she said roughly, and with every bit of conviction she felt, “I won’t forget this.”

And before she could lose her courage, slipped out the door and into the unknown.

 

—

 

Shakky listened as the door clicked shut, and sighed, watching through the window as the girl walked away. The sunlight coaxed out the green in her hair, before she tugged the hood of her coat over her head.

“Safe travels, little bird,” she murmured, letting the curtain slip shut before she turned back to her bed, and the box she’d rooted out of her dresser, sitting open on the mattress.

She palmed the soft baby blanket, the cream colour faded, although it hadn’t been used much. She ran her fingertips along the careful seams, the blanket stitched with care from several different fabrics, although the most prominent were the small squares with the little black birds in flight.

She paused at one of them, thumb brushing over the name embroidered in the bottom corner.

_Makino._

Letting out her breath, “Foolish old woman,” she scoffed, with a soft, bitter laugh, although the reminder did nothing to soothe her greedy heart, which had always felt too young for the rest of her; too recklessly _feeling_ for the years on her back, which should have taught her better by now.

In the end, she hadn’t asked her about Garp, or about where she’d come from. Something had held her back, watching her where she'd sat at the counter, polishing glass after glass with that contented little smile, as though she hadn't been aware she was wearing it. And she might have thought she’d asked to help as a reflex, or that she was going on muscle memory. Some former slaves found it hard moving on from that life, their bodies acting of their own accord, fearing repercussions if they didn’t do what had been brutally instilled in them, but that little smile had told a different truth.

She could have asked her. And she might have told her if she had, Shakky thought, remembering that open, honest face. Those big brown eyes that kept no secrets.

She didn’t like admitting that she hadn’t wanted to hear it, if she’d come from somewhere terrible, and a life she’d much rather forget. She hadn’t wanted to hear that she’d made the wrong decision, giving her up; that she should have kept her, like she’d considered doing.

She thought of that quiet morning with the three of them, her routines not interrupted but including another, the way she’d imagined once; a little daughter underfoot, slowly learning to love the place as her own, raised between crowded tables and liquor crates and the bustle of two businesses run back-to-back, neither fully in line with the law. Early mornings with just the two of them before they opened the first, and late evenings closing up the last, a bottle between them to take the sting off a difficult night, or just to share a drink.

She didn’t know what to call this feeling, regret or something more selfish, but it was hard to breathe, feeling it, the little baby blanket in her hands and the girl who’d once slept in it gone, again. But even as she acknowledged her own selfishness, there was another feeling claiming its space, one that was more important than her own regret, remembering those dark eyes, and the press of those small hands over her stomach; the resolve of a mother whose only thoughts were for the safety of her child.

Shakky could relate to that, if nothing else.

She deserved the freedom to make her own decisions. And even if it hurt, having her slip through her fingers again after having been given a second chance, it didn’t change Shakky’s decision, or the feeling that it was the right one. If not for her, then for Makino. Perhaps some things were just meant to stay in the past, where they belonged. The future was more important than an old woman's grief.

She couldn’t make a lot of promises in her line of work. She couldn’t promise them new lives, or that everything would go back to the way it had been; that they would heal, and move on. So many of them didn’t—couldn’t, after what they’d been through. The only thing she could promise was that they were free to take their leave of her whenever and however they pleased. In the thirty years she’d been doing this, that had never changed.

Little birds shouldn't be caged.

 

—

 

Less than three hours into her escape, which was poorly planned by anyone's standards, she was begrudgingly forced to admit that she had no idea what she was doing.

Makino looked up at the grove of trees, then at the sloppily drawn map in her hands, and felt like screaming into it.

She’d pulled the hood of her coat over her hair, just in case she should stumble upon someone who’d recognise her, but the people she passed didn’t spare her a second glance as she made her way from grove to grove, following the numbers painted on the trees.

She didn’t know if she’d made the right decision, leaving on her own. Maybe she should have asked Shakky for directions, or for Rayleigh to accompany her. She knew nothing of this island beyond what they’d told her, and had nothing to go on but a strange woman’s offer, spoken in the chaos of their escape from the auction house. She had no idea if Kikyo would even remember.

Although thinking it, and remembering her as she’d been—that fierce spirit, and that odd protectiveness—Makino couldn’t help but feel that she’d been in earnest.

She looked at the map again, recreated from memory, thinking of the one Shakky had sketched her on a corner of the newspaper the day before. She’d explained the basic outline of the archipelago, what the different sections meant, like where the shipyard was, and the tourist zone. She’d told her about the marine base, which had made Makino pause, but she’d kept herself from asking how it could be possible for there to be navy presence on an island where slavery was a common trade; where they had an auction house for that very purpose, and which didn’t even pretend to be anything than what it was.

She’d almost wanted to spit the words, but had held her tongue, reluctant to openly criticise it when she had no idea where Shakky stood with the navy. It was difficult knowing who to trust when you didn’t remember enough of the world to decide if their allegiances were right or wrong; if _you_ were somehow the odd one out, for believing one thing over another.

But right now, it didn't matter whether the navy sanctioned slavery or not. The only thing she cared about was avoiding the base, in case she'd been reported missing and they were prepared to bring her back to the auction house.

They could try, Makino thought, the reckless feeling seizing her like a vow; like she might have shouted it.

She was _never_ going back.

Gripping the anchor around her neck, the feel of it helping to settle her feelings somewhat, she lifted her eyes from the map to the enormous mangrove, and the sign painted on it:

GR 16. Shakky’s bar had been located in grove thirteen, although she’d been advised to steer clear of groves one through twenty if she could help it. Makino remembered she’d said it with an entirely straight face, seeming happily aware that they were located smack in the middle; as unapologetic about the location of her establishment as she was about the sign outside, promising a cheerful rip-off.

In her belly, the baby kicked, as though in response.

“I know,” she murmured, releasing the anchor to brush her fingers over the curve. She'd only been able to button the top of her coat closed, and she felt as her callouses caught in the soft wool of her sweater, before she pressed her palm towards the little foot she sought. “I want to get out of here, too.”

The baby kicked back, and she felt marginally less foolish for taking it as an answer than she had a few days ago.

She patted her stomach gently, although didn’t know for whose sake, but it made her feel like she was a little less alone, reminding herself of the baby— _hers_ , as she had decided, whoever else had a claim to it, or thought they did. But as long as she couldn’t remember the father, it would be that. Whatever her future was, whatever she made of her life, she’d decided that it would include her unborn child.

The first step of which was to get them as far away from this place as she could.

“I’ll take you somewhere safe,” she promised, pressing her hand towards the kicking where it persisted. “Somewhere they’ll never find us.”

She couldn’t make any other promises. Even having accepted what she was, she had no idea how to be a mother, or how to raise a baby. Then again, she had no idea how to be anything, least of all herself. And it gave her some courage, the thought that no matter what she set out to do, she’d have to start from scratch; that she had no choice but to try. And she could learn, Makino thought. Whatever she wanted to do, or be, she would learn how. She’d do it, not only for herself and whoever she’d been, but for the baby in her belly, who’d have to grow and learn along with her.

“We’ll do it together,” she said, and tried for a smile, even as she felt how it wavered on her mouth. “We’ll have each other, yeah? Just you and me.”

As she said it, she caught the sound of a high little laugh, and raised her eyes to find a man striding past, a little girl on his shoulders, shrieking with laughter as she clutched at his hair. Two steps behind them walked a woman, belly as pregnant as Makino’s, and her expression fondly enduring.

Her heart constricted, but she shoved the thought away, watching the man make an exaggerated show of pretending to drop the girl, which prompted another loud, hiccuping laugh.

 _Maybe it’s a good thing that you’ll never know him_ , she thought, but even thinking it, she couldn’t help but wonder if he really had been a slaver, or someone else. She still didn’t know where she’d come from, and if there was someone out there who’d loved her, and who would have loved her child just the same—someone who would have carried it on his shoulders and made it laugh like that little girl; the happiest sound she’d ever heard.

Pressing both hands to her stomach, Makino dragged a breath through her nose. She still didn’t know if her child had been conceived with love, but couldn’t help but hope it had been, feeling how it gripped her; the feeling she’d thought was just protectiveness at first, but that had yielded a different name over the days that had followed her escape from the auction house, the long hours she'd spent above Shakky's bar, listening to the sounds below and feeling the movements within her.

Maybe if she got her memories back, she could do something—would know where to look, or who to look for, if there was anyone at all—but until she could, she would put her child first. That was what she’d decided; the choice she’d made, standing on that stage, her life in the hands of the highest bidder.

She looked at the people milling around her, so many she felt short of breath, but they still weren’t looking at her, simply striding past on their way elsewhere, too busy to notice a pregnant girl walking among them. This wasn’t like the audience in the auction hall, where everyone had _looked_ at her, but without seeing her. Now, not being seen was a relief; a freedom in itself, being allowed to move among them, unnoticed.

She drew some courage from that, tugging her hood down a bit further as she looked at the map again, and the sign on the tree ahead of her. Four groves left to go.

She only hoped she hadn’t been wrong to trust Kikyo.

 

—

 

It took her the better part of the afternoon to figure out where she was going, and all of it to cover the ground she needed. She had to take several and frequent breaks, tiring easily and her ankles hurting from all the walking, and by the time the sun was lengthening the shadows of the trees and she still had a whole grove left to cover, Makino felt the first stirrings of panic at the very real prospect that she might not make it in time.

She didn’t even know what she was looking for. There was no sign of Kikyo anywhere, and she tried to fight down her rising distress, not just at the thought that she might be too late, but that Kikyo might have been recaptured. She didn’t know what she’d do, alone on Sabaody after dark. She could try to find her way back to Shakky’s bar, but she’d have to go back all the way to grove thirteen, and Shakky had advised against the surrounding groves for a reason.

Makino felt how her heart quickened its pace, as though to keep up with her feet, even as it was difficult to walk fast with her stomach, and her ankles hurting so much.

 _Please_ , she thought, searching the different establishments she passed, which had begun to fill with people as the proprietors lit lanterns and put out signs with their drink prices, although none of them were as explicitly bold about their rip-offs as Shakky.

_Please be here._

She wandered away from the buildings and the evening crowd, chasing the sun she could spy setting between the trees. If Kikyo had found them transport, there might be a ship docked. That might be where she was waiting.

Spurred by the thought, Makino followed the sunlight towards where she hoped the sea was, until she was moving further and further away from the populated area. The mangroves rose around her, the gargantuan shapes seeming always at the edge of her vision, like there was no end to them, but she could smell the sea now, the hint of salt in the air that suggested she was going in the right direction.

But while the release from the presences crowding her mind should have been a relief, all it did was emphasise that she was now very much alone, and Makino felt her unease growing with every step away from the tap houses and the artificial lights, the shadows hungry where they lurked by the roots of the trees, bruising the grass and the bark in purplish hues and crowding under the heavy branches and between the leaves, like they were just waiting for the sun to take its leave before they pounced.

And with her senses heightened from anxiety, it didn't take her long to realise that she was being followed.

She felt them in her mind, their outlines growing clearer as she sharpened her focus. There were four altogether, and she might have dismissed it as just a coincidence, four random people conveniently going in the same direction she was, but she felt their intent, the now-familiar hunger and greed where it snapped at her heels, each step she took a little more jarring, until she felt the beginnings of a sob pushing up her throat.

Her heart throbbing in her mouth, she was torn between urging her feet to carry her forward faster, and to stay calm, and not draw attention to the fact that she’d noticed them following her.

“Hey!” shouted a man’s voice behind her, cracking the silence like a whip, and despite every instinct in her body telling her to _get away,_ Makino knew she wouldn’t be able to outrun them. Not in her condition.

Coming to a stop, she turned around slowly, finding them approaching her at an almost lazy pace, as though they knew it, too.

It made her want to scream—made her wish she could do _something_ , if only to make them doubt themselves, forgetting their own arrogance; if only to make them feel, just for a second, the same fear and powerlessness that was eating at her insides now, knowing there was nowhere for her to run.

Throwing out a part of herself, she tried in vain to feel if there was someone else around, someone who might notice and help her, but they were too far from the populated area, and even if she screamed at the top of her lungs there was no guarantee anyone would come running. Not on this island.

The one who’d addressed her had come to a stop, his hands shoved in his pockets. He was the biggest of the group—the leader, she thought, if for no other reason than the way he'd forged ahead of the others, with a swagger that reeked of self-confidence, and one that seemed at odds with his appearance. He was a rapidly balding man, and was missing most of his teeth, although it didn’t keep him from grinning.

“I thought I recognised you,” he told her. “From the auction.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest, her breath hitching as she tightened her arms instinctively around her stomach, realising abruptly that she was by no means a random victim.

 _No_.

“They were up to ninety million,” one of his companions said. He looked like the youngest, and was twirling a knife casually between his fingers. Makino hadn’t even seen him draw it. “They’ll be glad to get her back, I reckon. The brat, anyhow.” He made a slashing motion with the knife, his grin flashing, just as sharp. “Could cut it right outta her belly now. Spare the buyers the wait.”

It was meant to intimidate rather than to be a legitimate threat, she knew, but just the suggestion left her so furious she felt short of breath, and she wondered for a second if she wasn’t about to pounce on him, feeling how her hands clenched, a silent snarl bit between her teeth. And she recognised that reckless response; the same she’d felt that day, standing before the crowd as they bid on the child in her belly.

She would have ripped the knife from his hand before he could get near her.

“Don’t be an idiot,” the one to his left snapped, before the threat could get comfortable. He had a tattoo climbing up his throat, and a toothpick between his teeth. “She ain’t ready to pop yet. Kid wouldn’t survive. Then who’d pay?”

The one with the knife grumbled, “Whatever. Was just a suggestion.”

“Either way,” said the fourth; the tallest of the group, and the one who stood the farthest from her. And he said it calmly, although the sheer, _violent_ intent in his presence had a sharper bite than even his companion with the knife, who’d boasted about using it. Makino almost took a step back, assaulted by the sensation, like desire but worse, the fervent promise reflected in his eyes as he looked at her, his fingers twitching as he said, “I imagine there’ll be one hell of a finder’s fee for a cash cow like this. Calf included.”

“Or _we_ could sell her,” said the leader. He was watching her, still with that partially toothless smile. “Go outside the official system. Fine a noble desperate for a brat, and take the whole prize for ourselves.”

“Think we could get a hundred million for ‘er?” asked the one with the knife.

The leader’s grin widened. “Depends on how desperate the buyer.”

"Fine," said the fourth. "They can have the brat. I'll be having _her_."

The leader was the first to reach for her, and Makino _reacted_ , but before she could shove herself back and out of reach, her attacker cried out, and when she looked up it was to find an arrow sprouting from his throat, having cut off his shout before it could rip itself free, and clapping her hands over her mouth didn’t succeed in stopping the one that leaped from her.

He’d barely hit the ground before his partner followed suit, the knife dropping from slack fingers as he slumped forward, a choked gurgle bubbling from his mouth, and Makino stared, wide-eyed as the feathered end of another arrow protruded from his chest, having gone straight through his heart.

The third went down in a similar way, but the fourth—the one who’d looked at her, who’d wanted to _hurt_ her, more than any of the others, and who'd turned to bolt the second the first arrow landed—was given three whole steps before another arrow whizzed through the air, so fast and so forcefully Makino _felt_ rather than saw it pass her; felt the unnatural power behind it, and the way it struck, heavy as a javelin and knocking loose a strangled, agonised shout as it went straight through his neck, sending him sprawling.

He didn’t get up, but it took several seconds longer for him to die than the others. Makino had felt them all, their lives snuffed out with each arrow, barely half a second left for them to realise they’d been hit. It took him a full count of ten.

For a terrified beat, she was frozen, staring at the fallen bodies around her and not daring to move so much as a muscle.

It was the presence behind her that shook her loose of the shock, a breath shuddering free as she recognised it, that sharp bowstring in her mind, and she spun around to find a familiar figure stepping out into the waning light, shadow spilling long over the grass and the dead bodies at Makino’s feet.

And even recognising her, it took a moment to connect the pieces—the injured arm, and the long, black hair, but then the figure lifted her head into the light, the corner of her mouth quirking in a hard smile. The left side of her face was still viciously bruised, but the swelling had gone down enough for her to open her other eye, and they both took her in now, bright as lilacs.

Her broken arm was in a sling, tucked close to her breastplate, while the other gripped a curved bow, and with the _twang_ of the bowstring still ringing in her ears, Makino could only gape, gaze flicking between it and her broken arm, uncomprehending, before realisation found her, taking in the sharp jut of her smile.

She’d nocked the arrow with her _teeth_.

“Little one,” Kikyo greeted, not even sparing the men a second glance as she approached, and Makino watched, mouth still gaping and her eyes widening further as the rigid curve of the bow in her hand suddenly  _loosened_ , before slithering up her arm and around her neck, the change so effortless Kikyo didn’t even pay it any mind as she said, sounding pleased, “You found your way.”

Heart still coming down from her mouth, Makino couldn’t even manage a verbal response, and couldn’t decide what to look at—her fallen attackers, Kikyo, or the snake lounging across her shoulders.

“This section isn’t safe after dark,” Kikyo said, coming to a stop before her. Makino saw her cast her eyes over the grove, her brow furrowed as she added, “I’ve kept watch for you.” She glanced down at the men she’d felled, her expression without remorse. “It would seem my instincts were correct.”

Makino didn’t know what to say, still having trouble deciding what to focus on, but looking at the bodies, was suddenly, brutally reacquainted with the realisation of what would have happened if Kikyo hadn’t intervened.

She was surprised at how calm she felt, considering. Was she going into shock? Or was it something else? But, “Thank you,” she managed, and had to clear her throat just to speak. She was shaking all over, and wondered if she might have to sit down.

Looking up at Kikyo, “I was worried I was too late,” she said. Around them, it was getting rapidly darker, the sun having disappeared behind the trees, although she could spy a sliver of sky between the thick branches, lit with orange and gold. Somewhere above them, the sound of a bubble popping broke the quiet.

Kikyo pressed her lips together. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you better directions," she said, although Makino had trouble paying attention to the words, distracted by the snake stretched across her shoulders, its slitted yellow eyes regarding her coolly, seeming too aware for a normal animal. It took effort dragging her focus back to Kikyo when she said, her voice deepened with regret now, “And I’m sorry for leaving you in the first place. I was injured and unarmed, and I feared I would slow you down. Given your condition, you already had more than yourself to think about. And they are usually quick to retaliate if there is resistance.”

The remark was laden, and Makino didn’t need to ask if that was how she’d first received her injuries, which appeared to have been treated. Her long hair had been washed and pulled back in a high ponytail, and her broken arm put in a cast, tucked against her breastplate in a sling. Her lips had been painted, like the lid of her good eye, the red and purple colours stark against the newly polished leather of her armour. It made Makino think of war paint rather than simple cosmetics.

Kikyo’s gaze swept across her, taking in her new clothes, her smile lifting a bit, smoothing out some of her regret. “However, you appeared to be in good hands. I would not have left you otherwise," she said.

She didn’t mention Rayleigh by name, although Makino wondered if she might have known who’d saved them.

She wanted suddenly to ask if she’d been wrong to leave Shakky’s in the manner she had—if she should have trusted them more, or told them where she was going—but she didn’t get the chance when Kikyo jerked her chin in the direction she’d come from.

“Come,” she said, with an unnameable smile, one that was too wary to be confident, and which made Makino pause, as she added, “There is someone I’d like you to meet.”

Makino hesitated, wondering what kind of person warranted a prelude like _that_ —like she wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing, introducing her, but was curious to find out.

But then, she didn’t exactly have many options to choose from, did she?

A breath for courage, and taking pains not to look at the fallen bodies around them, Makino followed after Kikyo, not sure if she was supposed to feel relief at her timely rescue or trepidation at what awaited, as they made their way through the darkening grove.

Then they rounded one of the mangroves, and she clean forgot about either feeling, halted in her tracks by the sight that met her.

They had to be at the very edge of the archipelago, because there were no trees to obscure the view of the sea where it stretched out into the distance, as endless as the sky above it, blue touched with shades of gold and pink and orange, like the sleeve of a kimono had been draped across the horizon, the water making the colours bleed into the silk.

It was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen, and for a long beat, Makino just stared at it, enraptured by the view and the sensation it brought.

It made her feel small, that vastness, the world seeming suddenly bigger than her mind could comprehend, and yet it was a different feeling than standing on the stage in the auction house. The sea made her feel insignificant, but not worthless.

And it didn’t matter whose authority held true on this island, or in this world; the Government or pirates or slavers. The sea didn’t pick sides or favourites; didn’t consider one species or any one person above another. And there was comfort in that, she found, when she couldn’t say for certain what the rest of the world thought. If the sea took her, at least it would be an impartial decision.

It was difficult tearing herself away from it, and the sunset, but when she did it was to find a ship anchored next to the roots of one of the mangroves where they crawled out of the water, and the sight of it was what kept her from catching her breath, even before she noticed the people gathered before the gangway.

It was _big_ —bigger than the slaver that had brought her here, the exterior of which she’d only caught a fleeting glimpse of as they’d disembarked, and which had seemed more practical than anything else. Unobtrusive, like any other merchant vessel. In comparison, this ship was the work of an artisan, a sturdy structure of dark timbers adorned with glossy red paint, including a spacious deckhouse with carved balusters and arched walkways in red wood, as intricately detailed as the rest of the vessel. Bright red sails gulped up the breeze, spread between the masts above the deck, signalling that the ship was ready for departure, and seeming almost eager to carry it away. Across the canvas was painted a symbol she didn’t recognise: a black skull with nine snakes protruding from it in a circular pattern.

But what seized her gaze and made her forget every single detail she’d just taken in were the two _enormous_ sea serpents that loomed before the bow. At first glance, Makino had thought they were decorative if distressingly lifelike figureheads, before one of them moved its head to look directly at her, and she nearly yelped in surprise.

Peering down at her, it blinked its eyes, before a forked tongue slithered pasts its fangs with a whispering _hiss_ , and it cocked its head, shifting its eyes to its partner. Gaping up at them, Makino had the inexplicable impression that they were _amused._

Their arrival had been noticed by more than just the serpents, going by the raised voices that greeted them, and still gaping at the creatures—they appeared to be somehow attached to the ship, like horses to a cart—Makino had to physically will herself to look away, and to take in the group of people standing before the ship.

Her body taking matters into its own hands before her brain could catch up, she started towards them, and tried to ignore how silly she felt, waddling next to Kikyo, whose long-legged grace ate up the ground even with her injuries.

“Kikyo!” called one of them, laughing with delight. “Ah—she found her!”

“Did you run into trouble?” asked another. “I felt you using your haki earlier.”

“Ohhh look! Her belly! Do you think she’ll let me touch it? Oh, I want to feel the baby!”

They were all _women_ , she realised, taking in the sight of them as they approached, their expressions ranging from curious to outwardly delighted. Makino saw that they were all dressed the same way, in armour of leather and various types of metal; breastplates that looked like they could stop a spear’s tip, and greaves encasing their legs all the way above their knees. Whatever skin was left bared revealed sinewy coils of muscle, sometimes scars and elaborate tattoos, or it was pierced or adorned with metals, snakes that wrapped around their throats and wrists or climbed up the arch of their ears.

And they all looked _different_. Some were tall as men, while others were closer to Makino’s height, and one of them so tall Makino would have sooner called her a giant than a human. They were stocky and lithe, their bodies made of hard, flat angles or generous curves and their skin dark and pale and freckled, white marble and copper and deep shades of brown, their hair springing up or curling softly or hanging sleek down their backs. Some of them wore it up in high ponytails, or in intricate braids threaded with silver and gold, feathers and flowers, or wrapped with colourful fabrics.

But the one thing that connected them all aside from the fact that they were all dressed for battle was the _power_ that radiated off them, that she felt in every single presence. It wasn’t flaunted, it simply existed, in the way they held themselves, their chins raised, their shoulders squared and their eyes focused. Like a shiver across her skin, she felt it; the sense that it would take less than a heartbeat for them to draw the swords and daggers she could see hanging at their waists, or the spears across their backs, the last of the sun's light catching in the sharpened tips before it sank like a sigh into the sea.

And she might have struggled to decide which of them to look at, if it hadn’t been for the one woman who singled herself out from the group, and Makino knew she was their captain even before she stepped forward and the others moved in behind her, as though in formation.

She was beautiful.  _Breathtaking_ was probably a better word for it, because it was a stunning, almost vicious kind of beauty; the kind that invoked a sharp, decorative blade rather than a more conventional metaphor, like a flower or something equally delicate, and Makino could only gape as she strode forward with the grace and authority of royalty rather than a warrior, even as she didn’t for a second doubt that she was very much the latter.

She wore armour, like the others, polished leathers and a fitted gold breastplate, and greaves engraved with similar designs as her peers, although wrapped around it were swathes of sheer, blood and plum-coloured fabric, clasped with gold at her wrists and elbows, and around her waist, to trail behind her. Gold serpents dangled from her ears, to match the crown that held back the black curtain of her hair, although the flat and sharply cut angles of the metal suggested it was a piece of her armour rather than a piece of jewellery.

Makino had to crane her neck just to look up at her, because she was _tall_ , and in a way that made her feel suddenly small and awkward, and young, even if she couldn’t be much older, if even that.

“This is the one, Kikyo?” she asked, still observing Makino. Her eyes were dark, although the dying sun brought out a hint of blue in them. Makino didn’t know whether to call them lovely or terrible, although found that the last had more to do with the look in them, rather than the eyes themselves.

“It is, Hime-sama,” Kikyo said, with the deference of a subordinate, although there was undeniable respect in the way she bent her head, before she raised her eyes to Makino to say, “Little one, may I introduce our Princess, the Pirate Empress of the Kuja tribe, Boa Hancock.”

Makino balked, realising abruptly that her earlier impression had been entirely correct, but managed to collect herself before she could lose complete control of her jaw muscles. Although judging by the smiles of the warriors at the Empress' back, she thought her expression probably did a good enough job showcasing her thoughts.

For her part, Hancock looked wholly unruffled by her gawking. “Your name?” she asked. Then with a delicate snort, “Little as you are, I doubt that is what you are called.”

Anyone else might have said it teasingly, but that wasn’t the case. And she had a voice that seemed made for commands, deep and lovely, although with an edge that cut away all unnecessary flattery and smalltalk from a conversation, like stripping the meat off a bone.

Makino had to clear her throat just to speak. “Makino.” Part of her wanted to blurt something like _Highness_ , although as she thought it she felt suddenly foolish, and relieved that she’d been able to hold her tongue.

“And where are you headed?” Hancock asked. She glanced at Kikyo, a fleeting look before her eyes seized Makino’s again. “Kikyo said you offered her assistance, and that we might offer it to you in turn.” She paused, a beat Makino felt like her own heart, before she said, “I take the survival of a member of my tribe seriously. I do not scoff at acts of kindness, however small the giver.”

She tilted her head, her look assessing. Makino thought of a snake, observing a frightened rabbit, but refused to drop her own gaze. She might not be clad head to toe in armour, or carry any weapons, but she didn’t want to show weakness in front of these women, who looked anything but weak.

She’d give them whatever strength she had. It would have to be enough.

She had the uncanny sense Hancock had caught it when her brow furrowed a bit, something like satisfaction flashing in her eyes, even as she didn’t smile, or reveal any of her thoughts as she said, “So I ask you again, so that my navigator will know where to set our course: where are you headed?”

Makino opened her mouth, then closed it. She reached for her stomach, and saw as Hancock’s gaze was drawn towards it. Her expression remained unchanged, and if it hadn’t been for the barest tightening around her eyes, Makino might have thought her wholly indifferent to her pregnancy.

“I don’t know,” Makino said. She honestly hadn’t thought that far. She’d only thought about getting off Sabaody, away from the human market, but she realised now, and more than ever before, that she really had no idea who she was, or where she even wanted to go.

From the look of her—that indisputable authority, that almost ruthless beauty, and the expression that brooked even less arguments than her voice—Makino might have thought Hancock would find the answer annoying, or at the very least impudent, but all she did was watch her.

“Do you have a home?” she asked then. And there was nothing tender about the way she said it, like there was nothing soft about her manners, but Makino couldn’t help but feel there was _understanding_ there, although she couldn't fathom what connection Hancock could possibly have found between them, as different as two people could be.

She swallowed. “I—no. I don’t remember,” she admitted, and saw as some of the women’s smiles dropped, their curious expressions deepening into frowns. Even Kikyo looked surprised at the revelation, as Makino explained, “I have no memories of my life. Not—not from before I was brought here. My first memory is waking up on a slave ship.”

Still there was no softening of her expression. There wasn’t even a hint of surprise, although the sharp clash of her brows was loud with _feeling_ —fury, churning in the depths of her eyes, although somehow, Makino didn’t think it was directed at her.

“Memory loss?” Hancock asked, although it seemed to be to herself rather than a request for confirmation. She looked at her stomach again, before her eyes shot back up to Makino’s. Her voice sounded furious when she bit off the words, “They did this to you?”

Makino didn’t know exactly what she referred to, her amnesia or the child in her belly, but nodded. She suspected it to be both, after all, but raised her hands higher on her stomach, her arms forming a protective circle, as though to suggest what she thought about _that_ , even as she said, “Yes.”

There was a moment where Hancock simply looked at her, and Makino found it difficult not to squirm under that relentless scrutiny. She tried to focus on her face instead of her eyes, although it wasn’t much kinder, cut in those severe, beautiful lines, the daggers of her cheekbones and the downturn of her perfect mouth unapologetically condemning, a fact only emphasised by the gleaming gold crown circling her temples; the two rearing snake’s heads meeting at the centre of her high brow, their fangs bared as though ready to rip each other to shreds.

And even young—she couldn’t be more than twenty, Makino thought, stunned by the realisation; that they were effectively the same age and yet she couldn’t help but feel like a child in comparison—Hancock looked older, her eyes showing more years than her smooth, unmarred skin, and her sleek sable hair.

Makino thought she might have suggested she was immortal, but even if the thought should have made her laugh, it didn’t, and it was with a sobering realisation that she wondered if there might not be a shred of truth to it.

She’d blinked the thought away a second later, and hoped the blush in her cheeks wasn’t too visible.

Those merciless eyes shifted to seize hers again, and Makino didn’t think she could have dropped her gaze now if she’d tried.

“What do you seek?” Hancock asked then.

Makino blinked, forgetting all fanciful thoughts of immortality, caught off guard by the question; the last she’d expected to receive.

It didn’t ask who she was or where she’d come from; didn’t ask what she’d done, or what had been done to her. Instead it asked her what she sought—what she _wanted_ , as though she had the freedom to choose, to want, and it took her a starved breath to realise that it was actually the case; that she could. That it was being offered to her, even as it also felt like a test—as though to see if she would take it. If she had the will to do it.

And even if she hadn’t expected it, the answer came to her without thinking.

“Freedom,” she said, her voice hoarse where it seized the word, as though for herself. She cupped her stomach, and allowed it to find her, that fierce well of feeling from the auction hall when she’d stood before everyone, not knowing who she was but making the choice of who she’d be, and she let it show in her voice as she said, with the full force of her resolve, “For my child.”

Hancock continued to watch her, those eyes that were as dark as the bottom of the sea, each one a black abyss, taking in all of her, not an examination this time but an assessment, as though it was her due to see, and judge, and decide, although it wasn’t her worth that was being judged, Makino thought, emboldened by the unabashed observation, so unlike what she’d endured in that auction house. This wasn’t a gaze that looked without seeing her—it was a gaze that _saw_ , every thought and secret in her heart, and every single piece of her person, even the ones she couldn’t remember.

And feeling suddenly bold— _certain_ , even if she couldn’t claim more of herself than the little she had, her unborn child and that breathless vow that she would do anything to keep it safe—Makino lifted her chin, hands cradling her stomach where the baby kicked, and stared right back into those terrible depths.

It didn’t last long, a second or less, but it was apparently all she needed as Hancock turned sharply on her heel, her chiffon train flaring, blood-bright around her gilded armour as she flung her voice over her shoulder, the words sharp as a command even as they felt like something else to Makino; an offer, as the Pirate Empress snapped, although with conviction rather than anger—

“Then come.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hancock could flay a man with her eyes. Probably.
> 
> (and goddamnit, give the Kuja warriors functional armour, Oda you coward)


	4. oh, the king

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that some artistic liberties have been taken in my (re)interpretation of the Kuja and Amazon Lily in this story, including Kikyo's character, because I'm just not buying the concept of an island of sheltered and sexually ignorant women who don't know what a penis looks like.

They arrived just at the cusp of dawn.

Her first sight of the island was under a blushing sky, blooming pink above the sea as they slid quietly through the water, so calm not even a hint of a breeze stirred the surface. Makino felt how she held her breath, her eyes raised towards the top of the mountain sitting sovereign at the island’s centre, and the cluster of snakes carved out of the grey rock, arching high above the ground below, their stone fangs bared in warning to any who might venture too close. Deep in the rock surface was engraved the name she’d heard them call themselves; the tribe they called their own.

 _Kuja_.

“This is Amazon Lily,” Kikyo said as they drew closer to the island, which might to Makino have seemed wholly uninhabited, if not for the human-made carvings in the mountain. Everything was still as they approached, the air windless and even the sea seeming to hold its breath along with her. Through the brimming light and the sky's blush, she saw that the island was covered with thick greenery, but nothing stirred within the dense jungle, the muted cry of a single bird the only sound she could hear above the soft lap of the water where it worried the hull. Not even the serpents pulling the ship made a sound as they slithered through the quiet and the tranquil sea.

Their voyage from Sabaody had been shorter than she’d expected, and while that might have made her fret, wanting to be as far away from that place as she could get, she couldn’t help the sense that they’d entered a completely different realm—that they’d left the rest of the world behind them, entering a hidden place where even the wind was loath to stir the waters.

 _The Calm Belt_ , they’d called it, and had been tickled when Makino hadn’t recognised the significance, but having moved past their initial surprise at her memory loss, had shown nothing but patience in explaining the things she didn’t know, when she’d asked.

She’d been surprised to learn that the sea serpents had a purpose; that they were physically _pulling_ the ship through the water. They were called _Yuda_ , Kikyo had explained, seeming to find nothing amiss with their presence, like the snake wrapped around her shoulders, dozing gently where it had curled its head close to her neck, and just that was still taking Makino time getting used to. But Kikyo had explained the necessity of the giant serpents—that being located in the Calm Belt, a stretch of sea with no wind and dangerous depths, their island couldn’t be reached by normal means. No ships dared make the crossing unless they were equipped to handle both the lack of wind and the sea kings. The Yuda provided them a measure against both.

Makino hadn’t understood, not until she’d caught sight of one of the gargantuan beasts breaching the surface; a monstrosity that had made the Yuda look puny in comparison. She’d nearly lost control of her bladder, but the creature had vanished back beneath the surface quickly, seeming deterred by the two serpents, neither of which had spared it so much as a passing glance.

She’d become more wary about standing too close to the railing after that, but their voyage had continued, unhindered. They’d encountered no other ships, and beyond the occasional glimpse of an island in the distance, the Calm Belt lived up to its name, vast and still as it observed their passage. And even with her cheerfully persisting seasickness, it had been a completely different experience than her time aboard the slaver to Sabaody.

She’d spent most of it out on deck in the fresh sea air, uncomfortable in the closed space of the cabin they’d given her, although it couldn’t be more different than the hold she’d woken up in; dry and cosy, and with a spacious bunk with a soft mattress. But she'd still preferred the fresh air of the open deck, and the company of the other women, who were loud and kind and curious, warriors in manner and dress, but they were also _pirates_ , and an efficient crew under the command of their captain, who’d overseen their voyage with that undisputed authority, which didn’t require speaking to be felt.

Makino hadn’t exchanged a single word with Hancock since they’d departed Sabaody, and hadn’t been able to summon the nerve to attempt it.

Stealing a glance towards the Empress where she stood at the bow, in blue silk robes as dark as her eyes, Makino felt out that ever-ready challenge in her presence, which seemed to dare anyone to so much as breathe too sharply, and had to wonder if it really was the Yuda that were keeping the sea kings away.

They were all gathered on deck now, observing their arrival, and Makino felt their growing eagerness; the genuine joy that had sparked at the prospect of their homecoming, heard in their voices as they laughed and longed openly for hot baths, and hunting for supper in the woods, for friends and sisters and daughters and wives, and found herself smiling without realising.

The baby kicked against her palms where she cradled her stomach, restless to the point where Makino wondered if it could feel their excitement, too.

They drew into port just as the sun rose up over the island, pink burning to gold as the crew set about dropping anchor, and Makino watched from the deck as they worked, with that same easy efficiency she’d observed while aboard the ship, their actions accompanied with laughter and now-familiar teasing.

The gangway was dropped, and she was ushered off the ship, her heart beating a little faster in her chest as her feet touched solid ground for the first time in over a week, and the significance of her decision began to dawn on her in earnest. It had been easier out at sea, somehow, but now that she was _here_ there was no escaping the choice she’d made; the people she’d decided to trust.

“See that she is settled,” Hancock announced, her voice ringing out, loud above their excited chatter, although she barely spared Makino a parting glance before she strode past, her retinue falling in behind her, along with her two sisters, who Makino had only greeted briefly.

Makino watched her leaving, the long, powerful strides that seemed like they were better fit a conqueror’s march into battle, although somehow, Hancock managed to make it look entirely suitable for the circumstances.

There was a moment where she didn’t know what she was expected to do, but she wasn’t given long to feel awkward, as there were multiple hands nudging her arms, urging her to follow. Unlike their Empress, they slowed their pace to accommodate for her waddling steps as they led her away from where they’d moored the ship, talking all the while, although Makino could barely pay attention to what they were saying, distracted by the scenery.

A lush, sprawling forest welcomed them as they walked, down a well-trod footpath winding between the trees, which stretched and curled and bent, around and above them. She spied a glimpse of the local wildlife as they passed, the skitter of quick feet and shadows under the canopy, and felt their curiosity and hunger both, although none of the women around her paid their observers any mind, their gait lazy with ease and their weapons untouched, even as they’d formed a protective circle around her, and it helped Makino relax, at least enough to not jump at every single noise from the bushes.

Her feet were aching by the time they reached their destination, deep in the island’s centre where the mountain loomed high above the trees. From the uninhabited feel of the place, she’d expected a small village, but they entered into a thriving town, located deep in the mountain’s heart, the interior like a hollowed-out bowl protected by the curving arches of the carved snakes keeping watch from above; a serpent's nest in the cradle of the sky.

She needed a nudge just to proceed, so stunned by the sight she forgot to bring her feet with her, and heard their laughter, sounding delighted by her reaction.

But she couldn't help it, and there was a second where all Makino did was stare, enthralled by the red-roofed houses neatly lining the busy streets, filled with people, with _women_ , many dressed similarly to the ones who’d brought her over on the ship, although there were still many who didn’t wear armour but who were dressed in plainer clothes; dyed fabrics and embroidered silks, and skirts and loose trousers seeming designed to accommodate for the pervasive, windless heat. And it was still early in the morning, but where Sabaody had taken time to come out of its slumber, this place seemed to have shaken off its sleep hours ago, shopkeepers having already opened their businesses and children playing in the streets. Makino spied a group of women prepared to leave, ostensibly to hunt or fish, by the weapons and nets they carried with them.

Many had stopped what they were doing to take in their arrival, elated to see their Empress returned as they rushed to greet her. Among them was an old woman, hobbling behind the more eager girls; a squat and gnarly knot of limbs that made Makino pause, as though wanting to reach for a memory, but as she was growing rapidly accustomed to, there was nothing there when she looked.

“Hime-sama,” she crooned, seeming genuinely pleased to see her. She had a kindly voice to match the smile on her weathered face, and brightly coloured flowers braided into her shock of white hair where it trailed behind her, spilling around her knotted shoulders, as thick and silky as a young girl's.

Hancock glanced at her in passing, but didn’t return the greeting as she strode off into the town, although no one seemed to find this particularly surprising.

Their Empress gone, the ones who’d stopped to observe their arrival had noticed Makino now, and she saw them murmuring among themselves eagerly, their gazes locked on her pregnant stomach.

“Elder Nyon,” Kikyo greeted, coming up to stand beside her, and Makino realised she was addressing the little woman, whose smile brightened at the sight of her.

“Kikyon! You’ve returned!” Her voice had a curious little inflection, but her delight was fiercely genuine as she approached them, carrying a walking stick that looked as gnarled as she did.

Her old eyes twinkled, although Makino saw how her gaze lingered on Kikyo’s broken arm, still in its sling, and knew she hadn’t missed the fading bruises on her face. “Did you find what you sought?”

Kikyo’s smile was rueful. “Not quite,” she said. “Although I have learned from all that I’ve seen.”

Elder Nyon gave a nod, as though this response didn’t surprise her. “Some lessons are harder than others, but that doesn’t mean they’re in vain.” She turned to peer up at Makino then, blinking. “You’re a pretty yone,” she said, before her gaze dropped to her belly, and her eyes widened with delight. “Oh!”

Makino blinked, caught off guard by her reaction, although many of the women aboard the ship had demonstrated a similar interest in her pregnancy. And while it might have made her wary, remembering keenly a different kind of interest, from the people who’d bid for her child, who’d been swayed by that awful auctioneer’s sales pitch, there was none of the same, selfish intrigue in these women, who seemed delighted by her child simply for existing.

She watched as Elder Nyon made a gesture, extending her hand towards her, as though asking to touch her stomach, and Makino didn’t even hesitate, finding nothing but that curious trust when she looked within herself; the feeling that hadn’t budged since she’d first stepped aboard Hancock’s ship. And even if she was still coming to terms with her decision to come with them, it wasn’t regret she found now, considering her choice.

She nodded once, allowing her own hands to slip from their protective cradle, her acceptance silent but clear.

A crooked hand lifted to settle across her belly, the back of it mapped with a long life, written in scars and thick, protruding veins. And Makino watched as Elder Nyon furrowed her brow, the grooves of her wrinkled face deepening as she concentrated, her eyes drifting a bit, as though she was looking beyond herself, or beyond them both.

Then with a noise of surprise—and a hint of amazement. “What a _presence_! And already in the womb!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening as she shifted her hand a bit, as though chasing something, although for once, the baby was quiet.

She raised her eyes to meet Makino’s then, bright with astonishment as she looked at her, as though seeing her for the very first time, before she dropped them back to her belly, and declared, with almost breathless wonder, “She’ll be a force, this one!”

Her own eyes wide, Makino watched her, wholly absorbed in the baby now. And there were several things she could have latched onto with either of those remarks, but she forgot them all, the whole of her attention seized by a single, little word, which had her breath rushing out of her.

“She?”

She heard how her voice trembled over the word, the careful wonder in it, as though reluctant to speak it too sharply, although Elder Nyon didn’t seem to have heard her, and Makino wasn’t given the chance to repeat her question, as there were suddenly more women flocking around them, having observed their elder’s enthusiastic appraisal and were eager to participate, several voices asking to touch her belly now, and still stunned, all Makino could do was nod.

“The novelty wears off after a while,” Kikyo murmured out of the corner of her mouth, her amusement wry, although her sincerity undeniable as she added, quietly for Makino's ears, "Children are rare, and therefore treasured. Unborn ones even more so.”

Makino felt as her smile softened, losing some of its awkwardness as she observed the women around her, most of them a good head taller and dressed for battle, although despite their delight and palpable eagerness, there was nothing but care behind their actions as they took turns touching her stomach, scarred and battle-worn hands searching for the little kicks, and their voices leaping out with laughter when they were rewarded.

Elder Nyon had retreated a few steps, and was observing Makino now, her expression unreadable. It made her a little uncomfortable, as though she was seeing more than was visible to the naked eye; as though she could see more of her than even Makino knew.

The sun had climbed up above the mountain, perched on the roof of the sky and filling the interior with light, and she was uncomfortably aware of how hot she was in the clothes Shakky had given her, her leather boots and trousers, and felt the sweat where it ran down between her shoulder blades beneath her woolly sweater.

“Come,” Kikyo said then, seeming to have picked up on her discomfort, as she made to herd Makino’s eager audience away, which required little more than a firm look and a hand on her shoulder. “I will see that you get out of the sun, and get some rest. This must all be a little overwhelming for you.”

Makino might have pointed out that it was something of an understatement, but felt too tired to manage much but a nod.

Leading her away from the crowd, Kikyo took them down a wide street, passing vendors and market stalls and little shops crammed together along each side, the smell of food cooking mingling with the heat making her mouth water. She spied fabric shops and armouries, a sprawling and busy blacksmith, and several shops selling metalwork and jewellery similar to the sort she’d seen the Kuja warriors wearing, serpents and dragons in gold and copper and precious jewels, everything from decorative combs to daggers and swords; sometimes clever combinations of both.

There was a bookshop that caught her eye and held it, although what tempted her attention the most was the tavern at the very centre of the street, its doors thrown open in welcome despite the early hour.  _Gorgon's Lair_ , the sign out front read, which was mounted on the wall by an intricate structure of iron snakes. The smell of ale brewing reached her nose as they passed, making her want to pause, although she didn’t know why.

But even if the shops and establishments competed for her attention, every detail and sound and colour begging her notice, her focus kept circling back to the people they passed, who ducked out of the shops to welcome Kikyo back, or just to catch a glimpse of Makino. And this was nothing like Sabaody, the crowds minding their own business and people barely sparing each other a first glance in the street. There was an air of familiarity, of kinship, observed in the way they all greeted each other, shouting it through doorways and over counters, laughter seeming never far behind, as though there was no such thing as _strangers_ here.

It made her heart ache, and she pressed her hand to her chest, confused by the pain, and the cause. Was she remembering something?

Kikyo returned their greetings, patient in the face of their curiosity and their questions regarding her injuries, which she gently sidestepped, but they didn’t pry, although Makino’s gaze kept fleeting back to her broken arm.

She wondered if Kikyo would tell them what had happened to her—the things she’d gone through at the human market. It wasn’t something you just brushed off, but thinking of her own experiences, and observing the free, unhindered ease of the women they passed, Makino couldn’t help the fierce reluctance she felt at the thought of invoking those memories here.

She resolved to think about that later, her mind already overflowing with impressions, and she felt suddenly every ounce of her exhaustion; the whole voyage from Sabaody, the seasickness that had only just relented, and all the little aches and pains of her pregnancy, all of it bearing down on top of everything that had happened, and she felt suddenly the acute need to sit down.

Thankfully, they seemed to have reached their intended destination, as Kikyo directed her away from the busy street and into a quieter neighbourhood; a cramped, cosy street towards the outskirts of the town proper, the houses on either side sitting so close together there was no space between them, and the cool shade cast by the eaves offering an acute relief from the heat. The residents had hung out their laundry to dry in the warm air, and she watched the criss-crossing lines of colourful fabrics as they passed beneath, although there was no breeze to stir them into dancing.

She was ushered into a little house at the very end of the street, simply furnished but with a warm and welcoming atmosphere. It had bare walls and wooden floors, which suggested that whoever lived there was either sparsely practical, or didn’t spend a lot of time at home. Looking at Kikyo as she directed her towards the back of the room, Makino thought it seemed a good fit.

She left to give her privacy, and Makino took the time to take in her surroundings, the structure of the house and the town around it; and to feel herself, every single ache and ounce of exhaustion, and every long mile of their voyage across the Calm Belt from Sabaody.

Someone had already drawn her a bath; a deep copper tub that begged her whole body, and she spent an hour just sitting in the scalding water, breathing. The air smelled sweetly of flowers, smelled of heat, and there was a part of her that thought she should be freaking out right about now, but sitting there in the quiet, her heart was a calm sea behind her breast, like the child in her belly where it was submerged by the scented water.

It felt like a dream. It felt like a completely different _world_ , and sitting there, it took her a while to realise that the wariness with which she’d greeted every kindness since the auction house, that she hadn’t been able to completely let go of with Shakky and Rayleigh, was nowhere to be found.

There was a robe laid out for her when she stepped out, a lovely thing of dark green silk with little white blossoms embroidered into the wide sleeves. It fell past her ankles, and was desperately soft against her skin. Makino let it hang open, allowing the heat to dry her as she loosened the tangles from her damp hair with the ivory comb she’d found atop the folded robe, the back carved into the shape of a snake nestled in a bed of flowers. And they were little things, but they felt like incredible luxuries, enough that she felt tears pricking at her eyes, observing the cosy room in its quiet simplicity. She wondered if she’d ever had a home like this.

She touched her bare stomach, feeling the shape of her body; the generous curve and the child beneath, and the stretch marks climbing up from her hips, a more thorough examination than she’d conducted aboard the slaver that first, terrible day. But there were no more scars on her body than there were on her hands, or any signs of a hard life, only little, normal things—a dainty mole on her collarbone, and soft, downy hairs on her arms; dark curls between her legs, and her skin pale and rosy from her bath, marred by nothing but tender creases and those pale freckles. There was a slight discolouration on her hip, like a birthmark. Whoever she'd been before she’d woken up, she couldn’t have had a physically hard life. There was no evidence of it.

She felt out the anchor around her neck; the only thing she’d taken with her from that life, whatever it had been. She wondered what it represented—an anchor for her own heart, or someone else’s.

Blinking the thought away, she fastened the belt of the robe, the silk spilling over her heavy stomach as she went in search of the presence she could feel further inside the house. It was made up of two adjoining rooms, but stepping into the next, Makino stopped, blinking with surprise, finding the whole back of the house opening up straight into the forest.

There was no back wall, just a wide-open space, a small terrace built before it, but a single step outside and she’d be among the trees. It had to be located at the very edge the town, because there were no other houses on this side, and not even a footpath leading into the trees, the closest of which bent so low their branches caressed the roof, spilling down over the eaves like a curtain. She couldn't see the mountain through the trees, and wondered how far she'd have to go to reach the rock where it enclosed the town.

There was tea ready for her when she stepped out onto the terrace, finding Kikyo already there, sitting cross legged on a cushion.

“Is this your home?” Makino asked, awed and happily unable to hide it, and having a hard time dragging her eyes away from the trees rising up around them, caging in the little terrance and the red tiles of the roof where it slanted across it, casting a cool shade. She had to keep it in her periphery just to remind herself they hadn’t suddenly been transported straight into the middle of the jungle.

Kikyo smiled, as though privy to something Makino wasn't. “No, but I don’t live far,” she said. She looked up at the house, seeming pleased at the sight. “Hime-sama sent word ahead. It’s been made ready for you.”

Makino blinked, taken aback. “For me?”

She got a wider smile for that. It seemed to have lost the hard edge she remembered from Sabaody, resting on her mouth with ease now; a mellower thing here, on this island, among her people. “There was excitement regarding your arrival,” Kikyo explained. “And a new child is always a cause for celebration.” Her look softened a bit, as she said, “You will be well cared for here.”

Makino looked back inside the house, stunned by the words. It was hers?

“You are free,” Kikyo said, bringing her back, and Makino heard the emphasis she put on the last word. “You may live as you wish, although we all contribute. Of course, you are not expected to work while you are pregnant, but you might take the time to think about what you will do after. Your life is yours to live, even if it includes another. And there are many things you can do here. Things you can learn, if you do not know them.”

Makino looked down at her stomach, curving under the green silk. Her fingers plucked at the little white blossoms on the sleeves. And she wanted to work, she thought—wanted to be useful, to do _something_ , but when she looked within herself, hoping there might be something that would give her a small indication of what she might be skilled at, she found nothing.

“You really don’t remember anything? From your life?”

She realised her thoughts must have transferred to her face, when she looked up to find Kikyo observing her, her brows knitted above her lilac eyes. And it was the first time she’d asked since she’d told them about her memory loss. Some of the others had inquired about it on their voyage over from Sabaody, but Kikyo had seemed oddly reticent.

“Nothing,” Makino said. “But—sometimes I’ll have feelings that I don’t know what to do with. Like there’s a part of me that remembers how to feel, but not why I do.”

She tried to look within herself again; to take stock of the moments where she could recall it happening. Rayleigh’s cloak. Polishing the glasses with Shakky that quiet morning in her bar. The sunset at Sabaody, and that curious familiarity, stepping into Amazon Lily. The tavern. The bookshop. The people, who all treated each other like family.

They all meant something to her, Makino was sure of that, but couldn’t piece together anything that made sense from their separate parts. She had no idea why those moments mattered; knew only that they did.

Kikyo made a contemplative sound. “It might come back to you, if you give it time,” she said, and Makino flinched, the words uprooting a memory; one of the few she had.

She wondered what had happened to North; if she’d gotten away from the auction house, or if she was still there.

“Yeah,” she murmured, although she heard how hollow her agreement sounded. She felt suddenly cold, even as the cup of tea in her hands was as hot as the air, but she couldn’t help thinking of how lucky she’d been, to end up in this place. If some things had gone just a little differently, she might still be at Sabaody, recaptured and back at the auction house. Or worse—she could already have been sold.

Why did she deserve to be here? How was it fair that it should be her? That she should be the one whisked away to some fairy tale place, to be given these things, this _freedom_ , and to be welcomed in such a way?

Makino looked out across the forest, crawling from the little terrace of her house (hers, it was _hers_ ), the thick foliage clustering around it soothing the heat. It was quiet, but concentrating, she could feel the movement within, the thriving life, and on the other side, the busy town. It was like she was sitting on the threshold of two worlds, although everything here had a natural _wildness_ about it; a freedom that seemed almost recklessly defiant, just for existing, and that left her suddenly short of breath.

“How—” she began, and had to clear her throat, finding her voice a rasp. “How does a place like this exist?” She didn’t understand how it could. Not in the world she’d come from; the one she’d woken up in, where people were commodities, and where women were sold as nothing more than breeders. _Surrogates._

Kikyo looked up at the trees, and for a moment her eyes appeared far away. And Makino wondered then, how long she’d been gone, and if she’d ever thought, in that dark cell or on that awful stage, that she’d never see her home again.

“We are naturally protected by our location,” she said then, returning to herself, and Makino thought she had her answer, at least to the question she hadn’t asked. “The Calm Belt shields us. It keeps us hidden. The Kuja Pirates are known around the world, and feared, but our island is a legend. They have not found us yet, because we do not let them.”

Makino didn’t need to ask to know what _they_ referred to.

“However,” Kikyo continued, a dark shadow passing over her features. The fading bruises seemed suddenly emphasised, as she said, “There are those who have acquired the means to make the crossing. New technology makes it possible. It is…worrisome.”

No doubt seeing her frown for what it was, “But we are safe here,” Kikyo promised, and there was a fierceness in her voice that didn’t leave room for doubt. “Crossing the Calm Belt is one thing, but exploring it is a different matter altogether. They will not find us so easily. And if anyone should get near, the Kuja Pirates will deal with them swiftly. Or we will, who guard this place, and the women here. Protected as we are, we have not let it make us weak, or naive. If anything, it has only made us stronger. _We_ protect, too. Each other, and our home.”

Makino considered the words, and Kikyo’s unwavering belief in them. But then she blinked, surprised. “You’re not a pirate?” she asked. She’d thought she was, from how she’d been aboard the ship.

Kikyo shook her head. “I left Amazon Lily on my own. They came to my aid because I called, but I was not among the crew when I was captured.”

She spoke the last word without hesitation, and her complete lack of shame seemed to render it into something else; a pale shadow of an ugly, unavoidable truth.

Makino envied her suddenly, for that unapologetic will. Kikyo had accepted what had happened, but she hadn’t surrendered to it; hadn’t allowed it to force her to do that, like those who’d captured her had wanted.

Kikyo’s mouth firmed then, as she conceded, “I was not as careful as I should have been. It was my own mistake, and I paid dearly for it. Although I will not make apologies for the vile natures of men.”

“Are there really no men here?” Makino asked, the question that had been begging on her tongue since they’d arrived. “At all?”

Kikyo only smiled; that small, knowing smile that made Makino feel like there was a joke they were all collectively privy to, and she was the odd one out. “None,” she said. “This is the Isle of Women. Not all of us were born as such, but we are all women here. Our sisterhood is a choice. We welcome those who wish to be part of it, if they have what it takes. Will matters,” she said, meeting her eyes with a meaningful look, then quipped, “genitals do not.” She slipped Makino a wink. “A rather well-guarded secret. But then we like those here.”

Makino smiled, startled, but the small inclusion into their community and their ways wasn’t missed, and the sudden swell of gratitude behind her breast made her breath hard to catch.

Then, having a sudden thought, and feeling a kick against her stomach, “What about children?” she asked. She remembered she’d seen them in the street when she’d arrived, playing and laughing, and there’d been a woman with a baby at the breast. “If there are no men…”

Kikyo was still smiling, seeming to find her confusion endearing, but there was no condescension there, just warm amusement. “Sometimes," she began, "one of us will leave to see the world, as I did. She’ll come back with a child, or pregnant with one. If she brings a child with her, one might assume she bore it herself, but it’s not always the case. Children are abandoned on this sea every day, but we do not abandon a sister.” She looked at Makino. “It does not matter where they came from. When they are here, they are Kuja.”

Makino didn’t miss the meaningful inflection, or what the remark suggested, and without apology, but didn’t know what to call the feeling that expanded behind her breast now, seeming too fierce for simple gratitude.

She’d been idly stroking her hand over her stomach, a habit she’d adopted when the emptiness in her own head became too much, the repetitive motion helping to settle her mind, but looking down at it now, the question came before she could stop it.

“What about the ones who come back pregnant?” she asked. “Where are the fathers?”

Kikyo shook her head. “We do not ask. It’s not our way.” She looked down into her cup, cradled in the palm of her good hand, her other still tucked in its sling. “Sometimes, the conception is an accident. The result of curiosity, and experimentation.” Her eyes glittered as she flicked them up to catch Makino’s. “We do not just leave to see the world; we leave to _live_ in it. For some, that means satisfying certain desires. Men are but one among many, and if someone wishes to conceive a child, they will find one to do the task.” She shrugged, and sipped her tea. “For others, sex is simply sex.”

“Did you want a child?” Makino asked, feeling suddenly bold. “Was that why you left?”

Kikyo hummed; a soft, curiously amused laugh. “No,” she said, meeting her eyes, that same amusement winking in them, although Makino didn't know what she'd said that was so funny. Then with a short cough, Kikyo let slip a smile that made her look suddenly bashful, and Makino gaped, surprised by the slip in her usually graceful composure, as Kikyo admitted, “I, er—wished to see the mermaids. On Fishman Island.”

It took her a moment to realise what she’d said, but—of course, there was such a thing as  _mermaids_. The auctioneer had mentioned it offhand when he’d presented her, but Makino had been too distracted at the time to fully take in what he was saying.

She shoved the memory away before it could find her, focusing instead on Kikyo’s almost girlish smile, looking as though she couldn’t help it. It looked almost out of character for such a calm, collected woman, and Makino wondered at the small offering, like a secret. A fiercely private thing; a proclivity which might have been shared between close friends.

“Did you get to see them?” she asked, ignoring how her hands shook around her cup, and had to blink her eyes to dispel the memory of the auction house lights, and to accept the sun for what it was.

If Kikyo noticed, she didn’t mention it. “No,” she said instead, her expression softening a bit, that girlish delight smoothing into regret. “It was the reason I came to Sabaody. I had heard it is where you make the crossing to Fishman Island, but I didn’t get that far.” Her look darkened, before she shook her head, and fixed her eyes back on Makino. Her smile sat a little harder on her mouth, although there was still a twinge of that earlier amusement there as she said, “As for children, it’s never been a desire of mine. Or perhaps not so much the concept of children as their conception.”

When Makino frowned, Kikyo hummed, and explained, “In terms of desire, my predilections run in rather the opposite direction.”

Makino tilted her head. “Opposite of?”

“Men.”

She blinked—then flushed. “Oh.” She cleared her throat. “I’m, erm, sorry for assuming.”

Kikyo only smiled. “There’s no need. It is the reason many of us leave, after all. Those who desire something different.”

When Makino just stared at her, the corners of her mouth quirked, and, “Cock,” she deadpanned, and Makino nearly choked on her tea. Kikyo lifted her cup to her lips, her smile hidden behind the rim as she sipped it. “To put it delicately.”

“That’s not putting it delicately,” Makino murmured, and wondered idly if her cheeks could get any hotter.

Kikyo only grinned, seeming delighted to have prompted that reaction, and abruptly, Makino felt seized by that same grip of familiarity; the sense that there was something significant about their exchange, but when she tried to pin it down, all it did was slip through her fingers.

Kikyo looked at her belly then, rounding under the silk of her robe. Makino couldn’t tell what she was thinking, although saw how her delight hardened, and for a moment, she appeared uncertain as to whether or not she should speak her thoughts.

Then, carefully, “Sometimes, the conception happens by force,” she said, and Makino felt how her grip tightened around her cup, but there were no memories greeting her now; was nothing for her to shy away from, although her first instinct wasn’t to recoil, but to prod at it. And she didn’t know why she was looking—didn’t know what she thought it would gain her to find them, her boundaries violated like her body. Why did she _want_ to remember?

“But,” Kikyo continued, and Makino looked up to find her smile softening, smoothing out the harder edges of her expression as she said, quietly, “Most times, it’s by choice. Sometimes even love.” The corners of her mouth lifted, a sombre yet genuine smile. “There are those who come back, but who leave again, and for good. Those who form bonds they cannot break with distance. Sailors speak of sea-longing to describe that nameless ache for the unknown, the restlessness that make us go out into the world to begin with, but there are other things to long for. Bonds formed by love are difficult to break.” Her smile turned a little wry, as she conceded, “Even if they are made with men.”

Makino pressed her hand over her stomach. And maybe that was why she kept looking, and why she kept trying to remember—that a part of her hoped she would find something else, like a forgotten bond. Or would it be a broken one, if she did find it? If she remembered, today or a year from now, would it still be intact?

“You think about him,” Kikyo said then, making her glance up. “The father.”

Makino worried her cup between her fingers, but didn’t know what good denying it would do, and so, “Yeah," she said. She shook her head, the sigh she expelled stirring the surface of her tea where she cupped it in her palms atop her stomach. “I don’t even know if I want to know. I keep telling myself I might be better off not having those memories of him. If I was—forced.” _Raped_ , she thought, but couldn’t speak the word. “I shouldn’t want to remember him, but…” _But._

Kikyo’s expression didn’t convey judgement. “I cannot imagine what it’s like, not remembering,” she said. “There are certainly things in my life I wish I could forget.” She didn’t specify what, but then she didn’t have to. They’d both been in that auction house; had both stood on that stage. “But our experiences do not make us. Our actions do. And you cannot change your experiences, or your memories of them, but you can choose what to do with them—even those you are missing. The father of your child…whoever he is, it does not change that you are in charge of your own life. Even if you do remember him one day, that will never change.”

She smiled then. “Children are conceived in many ways, but for those who choose to keep their daughters, it’s not the conception that matters. It’s the choice they make, about what to do after. Motherhood is, above all things, a _choice._ ” Her look was significant, as she said, “But I think you already know that.”

Makino looked down at her belly, large and round beneath her cup and the small hands holding it. She felt the little movements within her; that ever-ready reminder that she wasn’t alone.

“I don’t know how to be a mother,” she confessed.

She got a laugh for that. “No mother does, before she is,” Kikyo said, but her eyes held understanding. “You are young, so it’s safe to assume this is your first. Memory loss or no, you would be no more prepared than any first-time mother.”

Makino considered the words, surprised at the easy truth in them, although when she put it like _that_ , it did make sense.

“Of course, you won’t be alone,” Kikyo said then. “We are a close-knit community. We help each other where it is needed. We train our daughters together, raise them together, teach them to raise their sisters in arms, and in heart. Your little one will be no exception.”

Her throat felt suddenly thick, and she wondered if it was the pregnancy hormones doing it, or just the fierce promise she found in the words, offered to her as they were, with that same, indisputable truth; as though it was that _simple_.

Still, something had snagged at the back of her mind, which made her pause, bemused.

“You keep saying ‘daughters’,” Makino said. Elder Nyon had said the same; had said _she_ , like she’d known. “How do you know it will be a girl?”

It seemed like an odd coincidence. The women who chose to join the Kuja of their own will could be explained, and the girls who were brought here as children, but did every pregnant woman who came back give birth to a girl? How was that even possible?

Kikyo just shrugged, as though finding nothing at all curious about it. “It’s the way of things,” she said, and at Makino’s incredulous look, smiled. “Perhaps it is merely coincidence. Perhaps it is something else. We have stopped questioning it. But with you, I knew the moment we met.”

Makino wasn’t convinced, and knew her face was openly demonstrating it when Kikyo nodded to her stomach. “I feel her,” she said, smiling. “Don’t you?”

Pressing her hand to her belly, “I thought that was just my imagination,” Makino said, even as she reached within herself, to that little shape in her mind.

“What do you feel?” Kikyo asked.

Makino breathed through her nose, and closed her eyes. She tried to centre her focus, shutting out everything else, all the impressions she could feel outside of herself, the forest and the town; the island and the people on it. She shut it all out, retreating within herself, towards her own heartbeat, like submerging herself underwater, the surface completely still as she sank into it.

“She’s—tiny,” she said, prodding at the sensation; at that little body, still growing, and the outline of which she could trace behind her eyes. “A little restless, like she can’t stay still. Sometimes…sometimes it’s like I can reach out to touch her, if I just reach into my mind. Does that sound silly?”

Kikyo hummed, the sound like a smile. "No," she said. Then, curiously, “What does she make you feel?”

Makino considered it. She thought, in her head, of autumn leaves. A little tree with deep roots, and clusters of bright red berries.

She blinked her eyes open, the image gone as quickly as it had appeared, but the feeling it left remained, filling her from within.

And, “Warm,” she murmured, her fingers spread over the curve of her belly, bunching in the silk. She felt suddenly short of breath. "Happy. Like laughter, but it's not mine."

Kikyo smiled, a curiously tender look. “I think you will make a great mother, Makino,” she said. And it was another of those easy truths, offered without a shred of doubt, only this time, Makino found her insecurities shying away from her; found that she wanted to believe her. That part of her already did.

She was still adjusting to their arrival, to the onslaught of impressions and the things she’d learned and was still learning, but sitting there in the tender heat, her tea cooling between her palms and the baby quiet in her belly, on the terrace of the little house that was hers, one of the few things she could readily call that when she still had trouble deciding what it even meant to be herself, she didn’t feel overwhelmed, or even scared.

She tried to imagine what a life here would be like—to learn to know these women, and to live among them. To find her place and something she could do, and maybe find that elusive part of herself she still couldn’t grasp completely. To raise her daughter here, to be loud and wild and strong-willed, and above all things, _free_.

And she didn’t know if there were bonds that she’d forgotten—if there were people somewhere who she’d loved, and had lost. If the father of her child was such a person. She had no way of knowing, but she did know one thing, beyond the love she felt for that warm, laughing presence within her, with her deep little roots.

She thought she might grow to love this place, too.

 

—

 

They reached Sabaody in record time. Three weeks since Garp had found him, since he’d been given the news, and it had to be by more than just the grace of good luck and his navigator’s ruthless determination, Shanks thought, thinking back on their voyage; the days of perfect sailing weather and the blustering wind spurring them forward, as though even the sea was eager to see them arriving as soon as possible.

It might well just be his imagination, but as the thick cluster of groves that made up the archipelago came into sight, he couldn’t help the fierce gratitude he felt, for the clear skies and the easy waves, and the wind in his sails, the ship's lungs filled to bursting, keeping their course steady even as his own felt anything but that. But if there was more than luck to it, then Shanks would offer his gratitude where he could—would have begged if there’d been any deity who’d accept the payment, asking that they weren’t too late, or that they hadn’t made the wrong gamble, betting on Sabaody.

He’d been up before dawn, watching the horizon, waiting for the first glimpse of the mangroves rising out of the water; one he hadn’t seen in over a decade, but there was none of the restless excitement he might have felt once, as he willed his ship to go faster, barely seeing what was ahead of him, distracted by his own, growing desperation, which only grew worse the closer they got.

The sun wasn’t up yet when they disembarked, the dark still clinging with longing to the trees, and there was no one around to see them arriving, but then there was nothing resembling any kind of official management in this section of the archipelago. No one kept a ship’s registry here, and likewise, there was no one to make sure things went as they should. You docked at your own risk, everyone knew that, but Shanks left enough of his crew behind that if anyone should try their luck, it’d be at their risk.

The ones who were asked to stay protested the order; a rarity if there ever was one, in his crew, but he didn’t blame them, feeling the same restlessness urging him on now that they’d finally arrived, after three unbearable weeks of waiting with no word of her.

“Boss,” one of them pleaded, although they didn’t seem to know what they were even asking, but Shanks didn’t need to be told to know what they were all feeling. No one wanted to wait another second; to be asked to sit on their hands, and do nothing.

But he was their captain. And even if he didn't usually throw his weight around, they would understand the necessity of his orders, regardless of their personal feelings.

“Watch the ship,” he told them, as the others made to disembark, the anchor dropped with the gangway. Ben was waiting up ahead, with Yasopp and Lucky. “Be ready if we need to depart. Ben will keep you posted in the meantime.”

The order was followed, despite their reluctance, and his men were loyal and always had been that, but it was _Makino_ , and had the circumstances been different, Shanks thought he might have laughingly lamented an impending mutiny, but found only that sharp ache in his chest that had grown far too comfortable there, recognising just how big of an impact she’d made on his crew.

His ship in good hands, he left with the others to find Shakky’s bar, which was easier to locate than the woman herself was to get a hold of, even as he recognised the necessity of keeping herself that way, given the nature of her particular trade. And he had no idea if Shakky would even be able to help, but as the bar came into sight, Shanks forgot not to let his hopes run away with him, because it had been three weeks with _nothing_ , and this was the first time he felt he could actually _do_ something.

The bell jingled shrilly as he nearly ripped the door open, forgetting about basic courtesy and the early hour as he strode inside, the rest of his crew at his heels, and he’d barely had time to register the surprised faces turning towards him before his mind caught up with his body, and he realised that there were _three_ , although the last one didn’t look surprised to see him, only tired, and angry.

Garp stood before the bar, his arms crossed over his chest. Shanks wondered when he’d arrived, and if he’d beaten them by long. It seemed unlikely, given how quickly they’d covered the last stretch of Paradise, but the navy had their ways, which wasn’t so much blind luck and the sea’s favour as top of the line technology.

He was dressed in civilian wear, but then with a man like Garp, whose whole demeanour screamed _military_ without apology, the attempted subterfuge wasn’t very effective. Although knowing the man as he did, Shanks wondered if Garp gave even a single shit.

Standing in her dressing robe, as though she’d been dragged straight out of bed, Shakky was looking between them all, her expression yielding honest bewilderment, which was about as uncharacteristic as it could get, at least from how he remembered her, all cool smiles and quiet cunning. Their paths had crossed only a few times before, while on Roger’s ship, and it was well over ten years since Shanks had last seen her, but she didn’t look any different, as though none of those years had even touched her.

Her eyes met his, wide and dark, in so many ways like the ones in his mind that he couldn't stop thinking about, and yet at the same time completely different. There was none of the same guileless innocence, and while Makino's revealed her every thought, Shakky's bottled both secrets and feelings, although this time, she made no attempt to hide her surprise.

Shanks saw as they shifted to Garp, but it was Rayleigh who broke the stunned silence.

“Shanks,” he greeted, from where he was standing before the bar, having very subtly placed himself between Garp and Shakky. Like his wife, he appeared to have come straight from bed, his hair loose and his glasses missing, but he didn’t seem bothered by either fact.

His voice was outwardly friendly, although Shanks saw how his brows furrowed as they shifted back to Garp, who hadn’t said a word. “This is a curious coincidence.”

Despite his honest bemusement, his tone left little doubt that Rayleigh thought it was anything but coincidental.

Shanks looked to Garp, who still hadn't spoken. And he hadn’t told them yet, then, why he was there—why they both were.

“Not a coincidence,” Garp said then, his voice rough. He was looking at Shanks as he said it, his expression no kinder than it had been at their last meeting, although the grief was still more prominent than the anger. But then Shanks knew Garp wasn’t angry at him; knew that the kind of anger he might have felt once for what he'd done to Makino paled in comparison to what he harboured for those who’d taken her. “The kid’s his.”

Shanks watched as Shakky’s brows shot up. Even Rayleigh looked surprised, the most open expression of honest shock Shanks had ever seen on his face, but it Shakky who blurted, “ _You’re_ the father?”

Shanks looked to Garp again, but he'd turned his gaze away from them all. And he must have told them about Makino then, at least enough for them to know who she was, and that she was pregnant. But the fact that he didn’t seem inclined to say anything else made Shanks suddenly want to press for answers, needing to know if his silence meant they’d reached a dead end after all, or if it heralded something worse. He didn’t think he could take any more bad news.

Shakky and Rayleigh shared a look, and Shanks knew that it was exactly what was coming, and almost blurted that he didn’t want to hear it, whatever they were about to say, feeling the beginnings of the grief he’d been stubbornly keeping at bay, shoved down under so much blind rage he hadn’t let himself acknowledge it properly, but there was nothing holding it back now as it surged to the surface.

“She was here,” Shakky said then, with a weight in her voice that said she’d already shared this news with Garp. “About two weeks ago.”

The grief halted halfway up his chest, lodged between his ribs like he’d choked on something sharp, and for a moment he couldn't even breathe, could only stare at her as he tried to make sense of what she'd just told him.

“She was _here_?”

His voice sounded odd. Rough. _Hopeful_ , and he shouldn’t be, because he knew better than to hope, and there was something wrong about the way they were giving him the news. If Makino had escaped—if she was _safe_ somewhere—Garp wouldn’t be looking like that. Like they’d failed her.

Shakky and Rayleigh shared another look, before Rayleigh’s mouth firmed. For his part, Garp hadn’t budged a single inch, which told Shanks he’d already heard whatever they were about to tell him.

Lifting the top of the counter to slip behind the bar, Shanks watched as Shakky pulled out a glass. She filled it halfway, a clear liquid from a nameless bottle, and Shanks could smell it already from where he was standing, two paces away.

“Take it,” she said, pushing it across the counter towards him. “You’re going to need it.”

There was a second where all he did was stare at the offered drink, before he walked forward, two strides to cover the distance as he reached for the glass, before tossing it back in one mouthful. And he wasn’t a stranger to questionable homebrew, although this time Shanks was surprised it didn’t come right back up, his throat like he’d swallowed fire, but the abrupt shock to his system was a sudden welcome, jolting him back into awareness, the drink burning away the confusion that clogged his mind, too many unanswered questions when he barely had the voice to speak them, gone before the drink could finish its ravaging path down the back of his throat.

Rayleigh barely let him recover before he started speaking, and Shanks was glad, of both that and the drink searing through the lining of his stomach, because it allowed him to listen to what he was saying as Rayleigh told them about the auction—about the girl on the stage with the dark eyes, who’d been so angry, so fiercely protective of the child in her belly, who he’d brought back with him and whose name they’d learned was Makino, the little while she’d stayed with them.

He listened to the words, but with the drink having cleared his head, he didn’t know which feelings to fill it with instead. Fury, at the fact that they’d tried to _auction her off,_ at the image of her shackled and collared, or mindless relief at the fact that she’d escaped; that it had been Rayleigh who’d found her, and Shakky. Or confusion, wondering suddenly why she wasn’t there with them. Had they somehow helped her get back to East Blue? But if that was the case, Garp wouldn’t be wearing that expression—wouldn't still be standing there, if he knew where she'd gone.

But neither his confusion nor his relief were given long to get comfortable, as Rayleigh continued, his words heavier this time, and it didn’t take long for his anger to fill the vacuum, hearing what he was saying, the one detail that seized his heart and his fury both, like a hook behind his ribcage, yanking the words out of his mouth like he’d spat them.

“You just let her walk _out?_ ”

It didn’t sound like him; that anger. Although maybe it did, but it was a part of him Shanks hadn’t touched in almost ten years; a part that those years had allowed him to outgrow. An angry, ruthless part that didn’t have time for patience, not with the world or anyone in it, but it came surging up within him now, like he’d never forgotten it.

From the look on Rayleigh’s face, he hadn’t forgotten it either.

His incredulity had barely had time to die down before there were more following suit, and Shanks heard the raised voices of the men at his back, their own outrage offered, loudly and with no room for understanding as they all scrambled to protest.

“What do you mean she _left_? Left _where?_ ”

“How could you just let her walk out like that?!”

“She’s never been out of East Blue, and you’re saying she’s alone somewhere on _Sabaody_?!”

“ _You didn’t try to stop her?!_ ”

Uncowed by their reactions, Shakky didn’t even flinch, but Shanks saw how her expression changed, the shift as sudden as it was expressive, the usually mellow arrangement of her features shucked with a breath, replaced by a look of reckless  _feeling_ that seized her voice as she snapped, “I won’t keep anyone here against their will!”

The words struck the rising din, forcing it to yield. There wasn’t a single ripple through her calm as her gaze met Shanks’, and she asked, “Would you have wanted me to physically keep her from leaving? To have locked her back up? I don’t run an auction house, I help those who run _from_ them.”

The level lash of her voice almost made him take a step back, and Shanks felt as his anger fled, as though she’d ripped it out of him.

The whole bar had fallen quiet, as though they’d all felt it, and Shanks could do nothing but watch her, not a shred of compromise in her expression, and the hard glint in her eyes dared anyone to utter so much as a whisper of dissent.

But there was none, Shanks knew, because even with his own despair drowning him, he wasn’t so far gone that he didn’t understand the significance of her words; that he would have wanted her to have done differently.

With a sharp breath, Shakky pinched the bridge of her nose then, as though to gather herself. “I’m sorry,” she said, lifting her eyes back to Shanks. And her regret was genuine, he saw, even if she still stood by her decision. “I wish I’d known who she was to you.” She looked at Garp, something bright and hurt in her eyes, and Shanks frowned, not knowing what to make of that look, before Shakky turned her eyes back to his. She looked suddenly her age, as she said, heavily, “I didn’t ask about the father, but she was so short with her answers, she might not have told me even if I had.”

Shanks just looked at her. And he didn’t know what he was feeling now, but he knew she had a point—knew it wasn’t an excuse, but the truth. Makino was smart, and quick to think on her feet. And even if she didn’t know the full truth about who he was or the kind of reputation he had on this sea, she knew enough to be careful. She would have known not to take the risk, revealing their connection.

 _Oh, my clever girl_. But there was no real assurance to be found, when he still had no idea where she was, or in what condition. She was almost at eight months. Just four more weeks until the baby would be born. Four weeks until he’d be a father, although the thought had never felt any less real than it did now.

The despair he was feeling had to show on his face, because Shakky’s look softened then, as though she knew what he was thinking.

“She seemed in good health,” she said, and Shanks looked up, seized by the words. Shakky only met his gaze calmly, before she added, “She had no injuries that I could see. She was shaken, but at least physically, she looked well. Strong.”

She didn’t mention the pregnancy, and Shanks couldn’t help but latch on to the fact, faced suddenly with the chilling prospect that something had happened, and that she should have to endure that on top of everything else. Because he couldn’t forget what Garp had told him, all those weeks ago, that she’d been so happy, and couldn’t forget Makino as he knew her; the way he’d observed her with Luffy, a boy who wasn’t hers but who she’d loved like he was.

He’d always thought she’d make a great mother, that she would love  _being_ one, and he already couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to their unborn child, who he could still just barely believe existed, but it was worse, somehow, imagining her enduring that loss, who’d loved that little life for _months._

He struggled to even make himself speak the words, but he had to ask. “And the baby?”

But Shakky only smiled, although it was a sombre thing now, Shanks saw. “Kicking,” she said, softly.

His breath rushed out like a dry sob, but it was a false relief, and it didn’t allow him to feel happy. Shanks didn’t think anything short of touching her would let him be that; to feel it for himself, that she was unharmed. That their child was.

“What do we do now, Boss?” Lucky asked then, the question Shanks could feel them all thinking.

He turned towards them, shoving his own despair as far back as he could, until it allowed him to focus on what needed to be done. “We keep looking,” he said, casting his gaze across his crew. “We know she escaped, but that doesn’t mean wherever she is now is any less dangerous.” He turned, his eyes seeking Shakky’s again. “You really have no idea where she could have gone?”

She shook her head, but he saw how her gaze flicked to Rayleigh, before she pressed her lips together, and said, “She seemed preoccupied while she was here.” Her brows knit, as though she was trying to recall the events. “Not exactly frightened, but…wary. Restless. I’ve seen it many times with others in her situation. She didn’t trust us, although I don’t blame her.” Then, something passing over her face that he couldn’t name, she murmured, “Myself, now…”

Shanks didn’t know what to make of that, or her words. On the one hand, he remembered the girl who’d trusted him with _everything_ ; who’d given her whole heart and never looked back. But on the other, he remembered how she’d been when they’d first met. Guarded. _Wary_.

And despite the situation being what it was, he felt a fierce swell of fondness then, hating that he’d missed her by a hairsbreadth, but proud that she was who she was—that even alone on a strange island on a sea she didn’t know, she wasn’t too overwhelmed to think, or to be cautious.

Of course, knowing that Shakky’s bar was the only safe place on the entire archipelago didn’t allow his brief respite of pride to get comfortable, thinking of Makino trying to find her way; a young girl, alone and noticeably pregnant. And Shanks knew Sabaody; knew the kind of lawlessness that festered in this junction that saw the very worst of the world intersecting, and that it wasn’t any better in the official zones, where the Celestial Dragons frequented. If anyone were to recognise her, they were within their rights to kill her on sight, if not just take her outright.

He felt his breath coming heavier, and turned to find his crew watching him, awaiting orders. Shanks felt his own restlessness reflected back; the acute, desperate need to do something, held back only by the helpless fact that they didn’t know where to begin.

“You think she might still be on the archipelago?” Yasopp asked, sharp eyes shooting up to meet his.

Shanks didn’t want to hope, but couldn’t help it.

“Two weeks,” Ben said, as though in answer to what he was thinking. “It’s a long shot. But if she left this place, she must have had a good reason.” He looked at Shanks; met his eyes as he said, “She’s clever. Sheltered, maybe, but she wouldn’t let that get in her way. She'd try to find her way home.”

Shanks looked at Garp, his expression asking what he thought, but whatever it was, Garp didn’t seem inclined to share it, his brows furrowed as he stared into nothing.

“She left of her own volition,” Shakky said then, drawing all their eyes towards her, even Garp’s. “Calmly, early in the morning. She showered and dressed and walked out the front door. Those aren’t the actions of someone in a panic; they’re the actions of someone with a plan. Wherever she was going, she had a purpose.”

She frowned then, as though remembering something. “The day before she left, she asked me about this place. I told her about the different sections, which groves to avoid and so on. I didn’t think much about it then, but now I’m wondering if she might have been looking for someplace specific.”

Shanks looked at Ben, finding his thoughts written with deep furrows as he considered Shakky’s words. But Ben hadn’t been to Sabaody before; knew it only from what he’d read, and heard, and even if he could deduce more than most from less, and knew the girl in question, it was still a leap, hypothesising where she might have gone, and for what reason.

“Spread out and see what you can find,” Shanks said then, voice weighed heavy with the order. “Ask around, but be discreet. See if anyone’s seen her, or talked to her.” He looked at Garp again, although he wasn’t asking this time, or waiting for him to speak, as he said, “I’ll catch up with you later.”

The weight of Ben’s brow said enough, even as he didn’t ask where he was going, and Shanks didn’t offer an explanation as he made for the door, leaving them with Shakky, who said nothing but whose eyes Shanks felt on his back until the door swung shut behind him, the bell jingling with a shrill merriment as he put the bar behind him, his strides long and certain, spurred by a hard purpose. It wasn't hope, and it wasn't confidence; was just simple fact, but it was what he needed, his course feeling steady for the first time in three weeks. If Makino was still on Sabaody, they’d find her. And if she wasn’t, they’d find out where she’d gone.

But first, there was something he needed to do.

 

—

 

The pirates had all filed out of her bar, although the imprint of their captain’s anger lingered, but then Shanks had a presence that remained. Not unlike her husband’s, although even the harder edge Shakky could feel in Rayleigh’s was nothing compared to that sharpness; the one she’d felt she could have sliced her finger on.

And then, of course, there was Garp.

“Monkey-chan.”

He’d moved to walk out when her voice stopped him. And she didn’t know what she was even asking him. She'd opened her mouth without thinking; had only felt, and acted on it.

It wasn’t like her; that reckless disregard of rationality. Even with her strong-feeling heart, she didn’t let her feelings guide her actions. You couldn’t, in her line of work. You needed to _feel_ , every ounce of injustice, and strongly enough to want to do something, to change things, but you couldn’t let your feelings overrule your better sense. You couldn’t be _selfish_.

But even thinking it—even _knowing_ better—Shakky couldn’t help being just that.

She thought of Shanks, no longer the boy she remembered, the one who'd been too bright, too laughing for sorrow, his expression wrought with a grief that would rather answer to anger, but neither of which looked at home on his face. And she thought of Makino, her stomach rounding under her hands, and Rayleigh’s cloak around her shoulders that she’d refused to give up; a source of comfort whose reason she could guess now. And she didn’t know the circumstances that had led to their meeting, or the conception of their child, but _coincidence_ felt like a truly laughable concept now, considering all the different pieces where they fit together. Shakky, and the baby girl she’d given away. Garp, who she’d given her to, and Shanks, who was the father of her child, and who had ties to both Garp and Rayleigh, and by proxy, to Shakky. It was a convergence of fates that demanded attention, and that resisted the notion of being nothing more than an accident.

She had so many questions. And she collected information; it was her trade of preference, but even though there were so many things she could have asked Garp, she didn’t. She didn’t ask where Makino had grown up, or if she’d been happy there—if she’d been raised well, and by someone who’d loved her, and who missed her. She already knew, looking at him. Garp had been part of her life, that much was clear; had _loved_ her, and it made her heart ache, although she didn’t know if she was happy or envious. And Shanks…

That love was different than a father’s, and impossible to miss, even channelled as it was by grief and anger. It was the kind of love that defied everything, logic and reason and this whole, terrible sea.

And that she was loved, and so fiercely as that, was at once an unbearable relief, and the worst realisation Shakky could have endured, knowing she could have changed _something_ , if she’d only asked her. She would never have kept her if she’d wanted to leave, but if she’d known there’d been a connection there beyond the one they already had, if she’d known whose child she’d been carrying, she might have convinced her to stay. She might have been there with them now, and it might have been relief that had greeted the man who loved her, and not the anguish that still lingered, like the memory of his face when she’d told him. Things might have been different.

And even if coincidence didn’t feel like the right term for it, the notion of _fate_ felt like a cruel joke.

She realised belatedly that she hadn’t said anything, and that Garp was still waiting by the door, but before she could summon her voice to speak, “I’ll find her,” Garp said, the vow like a challenge, as though welcoming disagreement just so he could strike it down. And spurred by it, Shakky spoke before she could think.

“When you do—”

She knew it was foolish, and that someone in her business didn’t work with _whens_ but _ifs._ And she knew she had no right to ask him this, when she’d surrendered any claims to the girl and her life the day she’d given her away. Shakky wasn’t her mother, even if she might have briefly entertained the thought of being that, the day she’d watched the baby sleeping in that old crate; or that quiet morning not too long ago, watching her sitting at her bar, her own child growing in her belly.

She wasn’t her mother. She had no right.

Garp turned back to look at her, and Shakky released the breath she’d been holding.

“Would it be too much to ask to speak with her?” she asked. She didn’t try for a smile, knowing already she wouldn’t manage a convincing one. “A old woman’s request.” Then, quietly, as she looked at him, “And an old friend’s.”

Garp just looked at her, and in that moment, Shakky was brought back twenty years, to the last time he’d stood in her bar, the tiny baby girl in his arms as he’d gaped at her, bewildered by her request. _Why the hell are you asking me?_

She found none of that awkwardness on his face now, only a gruff, uncompromising affection, and marvelled silently at the difference those twenty years had made—and more importantly, the girl who’d made that difference.

“I’m not bringing her back to this place,” Garp said, and Shakky’s heart sank, before he added, roughly, “But I’ll tell her. She can make the choice for herself if she wants to talk to you or not.”

Her breath shook loose of her, revealing far too much; more than she readily showed anyone, even her own reflection, but then Garp had seen her at her worst already. And Shakky had never feared him for knowing.

“Thank you, Monkey-chan," she said. Then, the words harking back to the last time they’d had this conversation, twenty years apart, but the same girl at its heart, “You’re a good man.”

There was a beat where Garp just watched her, before he turned on his heel, and he said nothing else as he made for the door, the bell chiming loudly as he walked out, leaving Shakky with Rayleigh, who’d been quiet throughout their exchange.

“I had thought I was done making mistakes,” she said, after a beat. She felt cold, standing in only her dressing robe, but couldn’t seem to muster up the will to go and change.

She felt as Rayleigh’s hand closed over her wrist, his fingers warm where they dwarfed it, but he said nothing.

Then again, words had never been what spoke the loudest between them.

 

—

 

The auction house loomed before him, the mammoth structure seeming almost confident where it sat between the mangroves; a vast and immovable beast, as though its very existence challenged anyone to try and tear it down, the stone foundation and marble columns quietly mocking as he strode up to the main doors, uncaring of whoever might bear witness to where he was going.

A shove against the doors had them groaning open, and Shanks didn’t pause as he walked through, casting his mind outwards as he searched the building, locating the tired, terrified souls huddled beneath his feet, then beyond them, until he found what he was looking for. In a place like this, which _reeked_ of terror and despair, it was easy to pick out the few anomalies—the sharper stench of egotism, and the self-assured arrogance. There was no terror there, and no crippling hopelessness. Just greed, or worse—cold, ruthless indifference.

It didn’t take long for his arrival to be noticed, and for the man he sought to come running to meet him as he walked through the interior doors and down into the sprawling amphitheatre, but Shanks only spared the room a fleeting glance as he stalked down the steps towards the stage.

“Today’s auction isn't for another few hours, good sir!”

The resident auctioneer intercepted him as he came walking down, looking like he’d been dragged right out of his dressing room. He had on an expensive velvet coat with gleaming brass buttons, although his shirt was unbuttoned and untucked, and his expression looked as ruffled as his appearance as he made to hurriedly comb down his hair.

“I’m not here for the auction,” Shanks said, eyes raised to the stage behind the auctioneer.

It spanned the whole width of the room, framed by plush, red draperies and a heavy curtain, and accented by rows of glass bulbs, currently unlit. The lack of light gave the whole hall a cold, dismal look, but it was kept in pristine condition, not a single thread fraying in the velvet or so much as the echo of a bootprint on the glossy floorboards of the stage itself. If he didn’t know better, he’d say it looked like a stage in any other highbrow theatre, but Shanks knew what kind of spectacles they put on here.

He thought of Makino, standing on that stage. And he remembered what Rayleigh had told him of the auction he’d interrupted; of the tiny, pregnant girl who hadn’t been scared, but _furious_. Defiant in the face of that indignity, and he could imagine that well enough, but it wasn’t fondness that sparked within him at the thought of her, enduring it.

Shanks looked back at the auctioneer, and watched as his gaze did a sweep across him, unimpressed, although he made an effort to hide it, no doubt in the event that he had money to spend.

“You’re a pirate?” he chanced, deceptively casual, but Shanks wasn’t fooled by the veneer of friendliness, or his feigned ignorance in asking. This was a man trained in sussing out more than people’s monetary worth.

He ignored the question. “You had a girl in your keeping,” he said, with a calm he didn’t feel, and he didn’t look at the stage now. He didn’t think he could, and still keep himself in check.

The auctioneer’s brows quirked innocently. “Hm? A girl? We have plenty of lovely girls if you’re in the market for one. You're welcome to have a look at our selection once we announce today's docket. But as I've already informed you, there's still a few hours until—”

“She escaped,” Shanks said, cutting him off, even as he hadn’t raised his voice. “She was pregnant. Seven months. The auction was a few weeks ago.”

He kept his voice level, but he must have caught something in his tone, because although his friendly expression remained, Shanks caught the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes, and how his smile hardened. His eyes flicked down, to Gryphon on his hip, before his gaze shifted upwards a fraction to where his cloak fell over the empty space beneath his bicep.

Shanks saw the assessment in those eyes. And there were many who underestimated him based on his appearance, and his behaviour; who were all too easily mollified by his good humour and his easygoing attitude, and the way he dressed. Or now, as had become his new reality after his amputation—those who saw his missing arm, and no longer paid the sword on his hip any mind.

But the auctioneer saw, right past his calm and his amputation, weighing his value where he stood, not in coin but as a threat.

Without taking his eyes off Shanks, he cleared his throat loudly, and from behind the stage exited several guards, as though they’d been waiting, but then he had entered uninvited. There were twelve in total, all of them dressed in the same, perfectly pressed uniforms. They hadn’t drawn their weapons, but the demonstration didn’t leave room for ambiguity as they lined up along the front of the stage, behind the auctioneer.

“Ah, yes,” the auctioneer said then, as though something had jogged his memory, the mild tone carrying the underlying glibness that said _just try me_. “I remember now. Real shame about that one. She was exceptionally lovely by human standards. Hell, even compared to some of our more exotic creatures. I wouldn’t have to go through the trouble of capturing mermaids if all human girls looked like that! Understandably, she was a popular attraction. The child alone would have secured a month’s worth of business if I hadn’t been interrupted.” He scoffed. “Bloody anarchist retirees. You’d think they’d spend their waning years in a sun chair, not making life difficult for those of us who still contribute to society." He shook his head. "I didn’t even get the chance to start the bidding for her, so I can only imagine what she would have sold for.”

He looked up at Shanks, his hum musing. “You know, yours isn't the first complaint I’ve had that we allowed her to escape. I had a Celestial Dragon threatening to shut us down if we didn’t find her. The baby, at least, although most who’ve inquired about that girl have been here for…well, _other_ reasons.”

He looked him up and down then, and his feigned bemusement took on a knowing edge. “You get off on pregnant girls, huh?” he mused, clicking his tongue with an air of mild distaste, before he shrugged. “I’ve heard of stranger fetishes. It’s fairly mild, actually. That girl could certainly have done worse for herself. If she hadn’t been pregnant, she would have still been perfect as a standalone. So tiny, and hardly any womanly curves. Young, too, and that combination is always a big hit. She could have easily passed as underage if she wasn’t already. That’s where the real money is, I tell you. Sexual slavery is a gold mine, and this sea is full of sick fucks. You wouldn’t _believe_ the level of depravity I see here every single d—”

He choked, his tirade cut off with a wet, strangled sound as his breath was seized, his eyes bulging from his face, and he might have scrambled for his throat if he could have moved his arms. The guards behind him weren’t even given a second to reach for their weapons before they all slammed into the floor, unconscious, the sheer, deliberate _force_ of his haki too much to withstand for even the auction hall, the stage shooting cracks as the walls groaned, stone dust trickling from the ceiling as it shook. The lightbulbs shattered, one by one, a shower of glass raining onto the stage.

Shanks hadn’t moved a muscle.

The auctioneer’s eyes had sprung wide, and Shanks was glad to see genuine fear in them now, along with a spark of recognition.

“Y-you’re—” he gasped, choking on his own spit, froth gleaming on his lips, “—like _him_.”

“The girl,” Shanks said, calmly. “What happened to her? You must have had people looking. If she was as valuable as you say, you wouldn’t have just let her get away.”

The auctioneer gurgled, and frantically shook his head. Shanks set his jaw, palm curving around Gryphon’s pommel before he slid the sword slowly from its sheath. He was careful not to touch her kerchief.

Panic entered his eyes now, his earlier confidence leached from his whole composure, but he couldn’t move, his body locked in place, although Shanks yielded enough for him to shout, “I don’t know! I haven’t seen her! And you’re right, I’ve looked, believe me! If she’s alive, she’s not on Sabaody anymore!”

His sword free of its sheath, Shanks raised it, the tip nudging his chin up as he squeaked. Sweat was pouring down his face, gathering on his upper lip where it wobbled. His whole body shook from terror, although Shanks knew the quiet threat of his unsheathed blade was nothing compared to the undiluted power of his conqueror’s haki, unleashed.

“Did you touch her?”

The question was asked calmly, not so much as a stutter in his voice as he angled the flat of his blade under the auctioneer’s chin, the tip grazing the soft place where his pulse throbbed, a frightened rabbit’s pace. Shanks felt it in his whole presence, his terror so ripe it nearly had a stench. There was nothing separating it from the ones he could still feel beneath their feet.

He didn’t answer, his mouth working around air as he gasped, his throat bobbing beneath Gryphon’s tip where Shanks angled it, wholly steady. He smelled piss, fresh and pungent given how close he was standing, but didn’t drop his eyes to acknowledge the man’s humiliation, gripping the hilt of his sword tighter as he spat, the words lashing with a command this time, his voice barely recognisable as his own.

“ _Did you touch her?_ ”

He whimpered, nearly sobbing now, “J-just perfunctorily! P-putting the collar on her!” When Shanks furrowed his brow sharply, he spluttered, the words rushing out of him, “M-might have touched her a bit during the auction, but I’m meant to demonstrate the merchandise! I’m a salesman! I have to show them what we’re selling, it’s what I do! But we were _very_ careful in handling her, I promise you. We didn’t want any harm befalling the ch—”

He didn’t finish the sentence, the words cleaved in half, the pristine fabric of his expensive shirt parting as his chest did and the scent of blood and piss mingling as his body hit the ground, but Shanks didn’t spare him another glance as he turned to walk back up the stairs, sheathing Gryphon as he did.

He made sure not to get blood on her kerchief. She wouldn’t have liked that, he thought, the calm that gripped him a terrible thing as he pushed back through the interior doors, and made for the stairs leading down into the basement.

He'd reined in his haki, but knew they'd felt it earlier, their terror brighter than it had been, even as the building remained standing. Stepping into the corridor, Shanks took in the cells on either side as he strode down the length of it, the locks unlatching in his wake. He took in the people huddled within, and felt as they flinched back at his footsteps, but didn’t allow his eyes to linger too long, sickened not only by the sight, but by the cold dampness where it heightened the foul smells that permeated the stale air.

He tried not to think about her, kept in this place, but it was impossible not to, assaulted by the image, which only worsened with each cell he passed, and the young girls in them, cowering in the far corners.

Coming to a stop before one of them, he pulled open the door, the wailing _shriek_ of the hinges loud in the quiet corridor. He’d sought out the strongest presence he could feel, weighed down with the same despair as the others, but there was an unmistakable edge to this one; piercing, like a spear’s tip.

It belonged to a woman. She was his age, Shanks saw, and before he’d even taken a full step inside the cell, had put herself between him and the girls huddled against the wall behind her. They were all much younger. Makino's age, if even that.

She met his gaze, unflinching. And there was a challenge there, bright despite her downtrodden appearance; her filthy shift, and the fading bruises he could see peeking out from underneath it. She looked tired and emaciated, but the white-knuckled grip of her fingers defied it all and him both.

 _Good_. “Your name?” Shanks asked.

The open distrust on her face didn’t yield as she observed him, although he'd caught the slightest tightening of her expression. She hadn’t expected the question, but had reined in her surprise before she could let it show.

Shanks watched as her eyes went to the sword on his hip, sheathed now. But he wasn’t touching it, his arm slack at his side.

Raising her eyes back to his, “North,” she said at length.

Shanks nodded towards the exit. “Make sure everyone gets out.”

She hesitated, her eyes darting towards the corridor behind him, and the doors to the cells where he’d unlocked them. Shanks saw her hand reach up to touch the metal collar around her neck, and she didn’t have to say anything to make the reason for her reluctance understood.

He took a moment to observe it, taking in the heavy weight, and the awkward shape. A remotely controlled bomb collar. According to Rayleigh, Makino had been wearing one like it.

And Rayleigh had told him how to get them open, and he watched North’s eyes where they widened as it came loose, before clattering to the straw-covered stones. She hadn’t seen him move. Shanks had made sure of it, recognising that anything else might have prompted a violent response, but he'd stepped back before she could fully register what had happened.

For a second, she just stared at it.

“Don’t look back,” Shanks said, and her eyes flew back up to his. They were such a pale blue they looked almost white, and he was glad to see that the despair in them had yielded to something sharper. Determination.

She set her jaw. “They’ll just recapture us,” she said. An ugly truth, and spoken with a knowledge that made him wonder if that had already happened to her once; that it wasn’t reluctance that held her back, but a hard learned lesson.

Shanks turned to walk out, throwing the words over his shoulder as he did, “They’ll have other things to worry about in a minute.”

“Why are you doing this?” she called after him, her voice sharp as a whip. Accusatory, and making no apology about it. “You’re a pirate, right? You look like one, anyway. What do you get out of this? Do you think it makes a difference?”

He paused just beyond the cell door, but he didn’t turn towards her as he said, calmly, “Not a big enough one.” And he didn’t look at her as he left, or at the girls behind her, although even shutting his eyes wouldn’t rid him of the image that had taken root in his mind, of brown eyes in the same dark, and the same determination refusing to cower, as he said, mostly to himself, “But for her, maybe a little.”

 

—

 

Garp was waiting for him when he came outside.

“You done?” he asked, as Shanks approached. He didn’t specify what he meant.

Neither did Shanks. “Yeah.”

Garp didn’t comment on the people escaping, only spared them a fleeting glance, before turning his eyes back to Shanks. And it wasn't judgement he offered, or anything resembling it. If anything, it was regret, even if it was a hard sort that clenched his shaking hands to fists where he'd locked his arms in a cross, and Shanks didn't need to ask what the reason was. Even in civvies, Garp was well aware of the position he occupied, and its limitations. As a pirate, Shanks at least had the freedom to not give a fuck.

It wouldn’t be long until word got out, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel even a shred of concern, watching as the building cleared. Feeling it, their earlier fear overcome with sudden purpose, or at the very least momentarily disregarded, although it didn't matter which it was. He'd helped them get their collars off and had opened the cells, but it would be up to them to get away.

He saw the woman he’d spoken to in the basement as she exited, herding a group of girls, the last of those left inside. Shanks felt those piercing eyes as they found his, saw as she held his gaze for a moment, that open distrust still in them, before she turned her head away, urging the girls to run faster.

He felt Ben approaching, and looked up. And he was too on edge to feel hopeful, to feel anything but that still-simmering rage, and the calm that shackled it.

“Any sign of her?” he asked, even as he already knew the answer. The auctioneer had confirmed his suspicions.

Ben shook his head. “It was already a long shot. But this is a big place. We should ask around some more, in either case. A young girl might slip by unnoticed, but a heavily pregnant one might have left a trail.” He looked out across the grove, his eyes lingering a moment longer on the auction house, before they met Shanks’. “There are a lot of directions she could have gone from here,” Ben said, his looks meaningful, and Shanks already knew what he was about to say even before he did. “We can’t rule out the New World.”

Shanks watched as Garp’s brows furrowed, but he said nothing.

“Most ships that depart from Sabaody go that way, although she might have been lucky and found one to take her back across Paradise,” Ben continued. He was thinking out loud, and Shanks wondered if it was for his benefit or Garp’s. “But if she was desperate to get away, she might not have cared.”

Ben looked at Garp then. “What do you think?”

There was a long beat where Garp said nothing, and where he seemed to retreat within himself. It was the same expression he’d been wearing in Shakky’s bar earlier, but he hadn’t shared his thoughts with them then.

But this time he did, as Garp looked at Shanks. “Knowing her,” he began, although it wasn’t accusation in his voice this time when he said, heavily, “She would try to find you.”

His heart seized in his chest, and for the first time since he’d stepped through the auction house doors, his composure slipped, and the breath that ripped from him did so of its own volition.

“I agree,” Ben said, before Shanks could recover, or try to wrap his head around what Garp had told him. He seemed to be turning the alternative over in his head, one he hadn’t considered before Garp had offered it, and Shanks could see as his strategy shifted tracks, a new confidence in the contemplative set of his jaw as Ben turned to look at him, repeating the words, which sounded like a truth now when he told him, “She would.”

He couldn’t call it hope. He didn’t want to, but even as part of him resisted, there was another that didn’t—that seized it as it had been offered to him, and greedily. He felt reckless with sudden purpose, and a feeling he couldn’t fully name; felt breathless as he thought about her, and that her first thought would be to _him._

The thought that she would succeed didn’t require thinking. Even with her anchored, land-bound heart, if anyone could find their way on this sea, it would be her—would be that heart, which didn’t quail at obstacles; which was too fierce, and too stubbornly practical to give up without _trying_.

“We should regroup and inform the guys,” Ben said then, drawing Shanks’ attention back from where it had drifted, always to Makino, but where it had been a source of wry amusement for many months, Ben showed none of that now, only a keen understanding. “They’ll want to know what our plan is. And we should probably get moving before this becomes a scene.”

He looked up at the auction house, as though for emphasis. And he hadn’t asked Shanks what he’d done, but then Ben knew him better than most; knew his temper and his weaknesses and his righteous, recklessly feeling heart, and could probably wager a fair guess.

Shanks met Garp’s look. And he didn’t say anything, didn’t excuse himself or ask for permission, but Garp’s gaze hardened with understanding, before he bit off the words, as though with an almost perverse pleasure; a small concession, when his hands were otherwise bound. “Go head.”

Turning to face the auction house, Shanks did a quick sweep, making sure there was no one left inside, that they’d all gotten out, before he allowed Gryphon to slide free of its sheath, feeling the weight of the sword in his hand, still a little strange in his right, but he pushed the thought away along with all the others as he took a step towards the looming building, his mind cleared of everything except her. First, the way he remembered her best; the calm waters of her presence, and that desperately tender expression when she looked at him, like no one else had. But then, sharpening his focus, the image Rayleigh had put in his mind, of the girl whose waters hadn't been calm but _churning_ , and whose feelings had been so strong he hadn’t been able to turn away from them. Standing on the stage in that auction house.

It was less than a second. A single step, and more power than he strictly needed, twice than what was even necessary, but the fury that had been building within him for weeks was finally given an outlet, and he let it all go in a single, cutting sweep, so fast the soft _sheek_ of his blade being unsheathed had barely died before he was sliding it back in.

The pressure was felt before the cut, a shockwave where it struck the air, flattening the grass and making his ears pop along with the bubbles as it lashed out of him, and with so much force the mangroves that had stood for centuries shot cracks, the sound like thunder where it shattered the quiet, the wood splitting and breaking, leaving grooves as deep as the scars in his skin as the whole grove groaned beneath his feet.

A tense beat followed where nothing happened, before a deep, resonant drum sounded as the auction house came apart, cut clean in two, the top half beginning to slide down as the foundation gave out beneath it, the marble columns shooting cracks like the mangroves, yielding under the weight, before the whole building came down in a roaring _crash,_ sending plumes of stone dust billowing up into the canopy.

Shanks didn’t linger to watch it crumbling as he finished sheathing Gryphon, fingers brushing against Makino's kerchief, but he didn’t pull his hand away this time, seeking it greedily instead.

There were people shouting, a crowd gathering around the still-crumbling building, their distress as loud as their questions as they inquired about what had happened. Shanks felt their attention fleeting his way, followed by incredulity, but couldn’t be bothered to pay them any mind as he turned away from the ruins of the auction house.

They’d rebuild it. He could do nothing about that, couldn’t stop them from continuing their corrupt business, and there were a hundred more auction houses on the Grand Line alone, but _this_ auction house, the one where Makino had been kept, where she’d been subjected to that horror, was a crumbled pile of stone and wood.

It was all he could do for her, until he found her. And he would have torn it down brick by brick if he’d had to, if only so she wouldn't have to live another second in the same world where it existed.

Neither Garp nor Ben said anything as he made to walk past them, his movements sharp, commanding; a new anger surging in to fill the void left by the rage he’d let go, and it didn’t take long until it was brimming over again, but it wasn’t desperation that shoved him forward now but conviction, fuelled by the thought that, wherever Makino was, she’d gotten away. She hadn’t been sold, and even if he still had no idea where in the world she was or in what state, it only urged him on, until he felt seized by the vow that roiled and churned within him, fiercer than fury and grief and the helplessness that had crippled him once. He wasn’t helpless now.

And if she really was looking for him, then Shanks would make himself easy to find.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the story of how Shanks reached Emperor status by recklessly putting himself in the newspaper just so Makino would find him.
> 
> (I kid)
> 
> (maybe)


	5. there's a hole where your heart lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In spite of the less-than-cheerful premise, I'm having a lot of fun with this story. I hope you're enjoying it so far!

The bar had been closed for weeks.

Ace looked up at the porch, and the quiet establishment beyond; the darkened windows, which were usually open, a vase of fresh flowers waiting on the sill. Someone had finally taken out the ones that had been wilting there, as though they hadn’t been able to bear the sight of them any longer. And it was a tiny detail, but then she’d always made sure there were fresh flowers, like she’d always made sure the porch was clean and tidy.

He looked at the bootprints, and the grey mud that had caked and dried in the cracks between the planks.

It didn’t look like the same bar. It was the same building, and nothing about it had changed outwardly, but looking at it, Ace barely recognised it. It didn’t just look empty, it _felt_ empty.

Usually at this hour, the place would be filling up. She’d be busy serving her customers, but she’d sneak them leftovers when she found a moment, and if there wasn’t enough for all three of them to share, she’d give them an extra serving, and pretend it wasn’t that. And they’d sit on the roof and eat, and listen to the sounds rising up from below as the sun went down beyond the port. They weren’t old enough to be allowed in after dark, but where they might have tried to sneak their way in at any other establishment, they’d never tried that with her—in part because Ace didn’t think they’d actually succeed in tricking her, but mostly because he didn’t like being dishonest around her. He didn’t want her to be disappointed in him, which he knew she would have been if she’d caught them doing something like that.

He hadn’t used to care about that—how he appeared to others. He knew how most people saw him, and had long since stopped trying to be anything else than what they already assumed he was. It had been easier that way. The moment he’d stopped expecting them to treat him any differently, when he’d decided to just confirm their inherent prejudice, he’d stopped being so hurt by it.

But then there was Luffy, who looked at him like he was something else—like he was the most amazing person in the world. And Makino-san, who’d made him feel like he could be that person, if he wanted to be. If he tried.

And he’d wanted to be that, for them. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought he was, or should be. He didn’t care about them, anyway. Before Luffy, Ace hadn’t had much to do with Fuschia’s inhabitants, beyond the occasional visit to steal melons from the outlying farms, or to rearrange the scarecrows for kicks. He’d never felt particularly welcome among them, and hadn’t wanted to give them more opportunities to prove it.

She’d changed things. She’d gone out of her way to make him feel welcome, and wanted, only now it felt like it had used to; as though he was just a visitor, tolerated at best, although that was in no small part thanks to Luffy. If it hadn’t been for his little brother, Ace doubted they’d want anything to do with him.

Except for Makino-san, at least. She’d used to come and visit, even before Garp had brought Luffy to stay with Dadan. She’d patched his clothes, had made him new ones when he grew out of them, and had never yelled at him for tearing them. She’d even taught him how to read, even if he’d never been able to sit still for long, and always fell asleep during her lessons. She’d never needed a reason to be kind, she just _was_.

She’d been the heart, he thought. If Fuschia had one, it had been her. Everyone had known her, and loved her, and without her the place didn’t feel the same. Ace didn’t think he was the only one who felt it.

He’d caught her approach from further down the street, and looked up to see the old crone he’d often seen at Makino-san’s bar—the one who drank a lot, and looked the part.

“Brat,” she said, as she came to a stop beside him. She didn’t even glance at Party’s, as though she was making an effort not to. Ace thought she looked tired, and more than usual. And she was his grandpa’s age, he knew, but she seemed older, somehow.

Ace had never really minded her. Other than Makino-san, she was one of the few who’d never treated him like his father’s son. Or at least, she extended about as much courtesy to him as she did to anyone, which wasn’t a lot.

“Baba,” Ace countered, and watched as her grin flashed, quick and wry, before it slipped off her mouth, like it wasn’t comfortable there anymore. He noticed she was now very pointedly not looking at the bar.

But, “If you’re looking for your brother,” she said, with a nod to the tavern. “He’s in there.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Ace said. He’d been stalling, and probably being really obvious about it, but when he tried to make his feet walk inside, they wouldn’t listen.

The old woman watched him, although Ace had the sudden sense that she was looking at something else, or like she was seeing _someone_ else, before she blinked her eyes and sighed, the slow rasp grating on her breath.

“Nothing ever changes. It’s always the youngins suffering,” she said, glancing up at the bar for the first time since she’d approached him, although she didn't seem to be talking to him this time, her voice a low mutter. "Old age is the cruelest punishment, but then we probably deserve it. Eh, Captain?"

Ace watched as her expression changed, anger warping it into something terrifying, but she didn't say anything else as she made to walk away, as though he wasn't even there, the slight limp in her step more pronounced than usual, and Ace watched her go, frowning, before he turned his gaze back to Party’s.

It took a few more seconds of willing himself to walk across the threshold, and to push through the bat-wing doors. He hadn’t been inside since before the raid; hadn’t been able to bring himself to do it, even if the bar didn’t show signs of what had happened that night.

Nothing looked out of place. The tables were where they were supposed to be, and the chairs. The bottles and jars on the shelves were untouched, and no one had moved even a single glass.

But it wasn’t the same. There was a thick layer of dust on the counter, and he knew there’d be one on the shelves as well, on the bottles and the glasses. Had Makino-san been there, there wouldn’t have been so much as a spec, but it was only one evidence among many that she was gone.

For a moment, Ace just stood there, observing the empty room, quiet but for the soft, muffled sniffles from somewhere behind the counter.

He found Luffy huddled by the back wall next to the storeroom, between the kegs. He’d been crying, although that wasn’t surprising, but Ace saw that he had something clutched between his hands, and upon closer inspection, realised it was one of Makino’s kerchiefs—the yellow one she’d been wearing the last time he’d seen her.

Ace watched the snot running from his nose, but Luffy made no point of wiping it away with the kerchief, or even to dry his tears with it.

“Gramps called,” Ace said then, and watched as Luffy’s eyes shot up, wide and hopeful, and felt a pang of regret that he wasn’t bringing better news. “Makino-san escaped,” he continued, but before that hurtful hope could get comfortable on his brother's face, said, “But they’re still looking for her. They don’t know where she is.”

Luffy’s face fell. And he’d always been so free with his emotions, which was only emphasised when his expression changed, worry brimming in his eyes with new tears. His voice was hoarse from crying when he asked, “What about—”

Ace pressed his lips together. He didn’t like not having more information. The big brother should be the one with the answers; the one who knew everything. “She might not have had it yet,” he said. “Gramps wasn’t sure.”

He hadn’t been able to gather much from that call but bits and pieces. Garp hadn’t said a lot, but Dadan seemed to have understood, anyway.

He hated it when grown-ups did that—when they had conversations without actually speaking.

But Garp had promised he would keep looking; that Red-Hair was doing the same. Dadan had accepted, but Ace had wanted to protest—to shout that they should be doing _more_ , and faster. But he was old enough to recognise that acting like a child wouldn’t change anything; that if he wanted _change_ , he needed to be smart about it. Even if he wasn’t one yet, he needed to act like an adult, not a bratty kid.

He didn’t want to let Makino-san down. And now that it was just him left, someone had to set a good example for Luffy.

His little brother was being unusually quiet, worrying the straw hat on his head. Looking at it, Ace wondered what Red-Hair was doing.

“Hey,” Ace said then, nudging him. “She’s not dead. Maybe she’ll even be back here before they can find her. Then _we_ can call gramps and tell him.”

He heard that he didn’t believe his own words, but hoped that Luffy still would. Because Ace had heard the stories. Few ships ever returned from the Grand Line, and Makino-san wasn’t a pirate.

Luffy must have been thinking the same, because he asked then, very softly, “What if she doesn’t come back?”

But Ace didn’t hesitate, crossing his arms over his chest as he straightened his back. “Then we’ll go there and find them.”

Luffy wiped his still-running nose. His other hand was still gripping Makino’s kerchief. “Yeah?”

“That’s our baby brother or sister,” Ace said. “And you know what a big brother’s job is, right?”

Luffy sniffled, but nodded. And Sabo’s loss was still fresh—Ace still found himself glancing to his right, expecting him to be there, grinning, but he never was. It was just the two of them left now.

They couldn’t lose Makino’s baby, too.

“Yeah,” Luffy said then, suddenly fierce. When he looked up, Ace was glad to see he’d stopped crying, although it seemed through sheer force of will.

A moment later, his lower lip trembled, as Luffy croaked, “But—Sabo was—”

“We’ll wait,” Ace said, cutting him off before he could finish speaking. “Until we’re older. And we’ll train. When we go out to sea, we’ll be strong enough to change things. We won’t be killed. We’ll be stronger than gramps and Red-Hair both. Wasn’t that your promise?”

There was a pause, before Luffy nodded. He was fiddling with the straw hat again, his fingers plucking at the coarse brim.

Then, in the smallest voice Ace had ever heard, “Do you think Shanks is worried?”

Ace considered him, sitting there with the oversized straw hat, which kept slipping into his brow. And it was a hard truth to swallow—that the hero you worshipped had the same weaknesses you did; that they were scared, and helpless, or that they should even have weaknesses at all. Ace didn’t have any heroes, but could imagine what it might feel like, being confronted with that fact.

Or—maybe he had _one_ hero. And Makino-san had to be worried, too. She had to be scared, but Ace didn’t for a second doubt that she’d let it defeat her. She wasn’t just the kindest person he knew; she was also one of the strongest. You had to be that, to be that kind.

“Yeah,” Ace said, quietly. But then, with every ounce of conviction he felt, because even if he didn’t know Red-Hair, or whether he deserved Luffy worship, or Makino-san, he was sure of one thing. “But I don’t think he’s going to let that stop him.”

Luffy’s mouth tightened, but he seemed to take courage from that. And it wasn’t resignation Ace found in his eyes when he met them next, and nodded.

“Come on,” Ace said then, nodding towards the storeroom. “Help me fill the wash-bucket.”

Luffy frowned. “Why?”

“Because if she is on her way back,” Ace said, with a glance towards the bar behind them, the dust of neglect and the empty flower vases, all of it forgotten, all of it meaningless without her, “then the least we could do is make sure it looks nice for her.”

 

—

 

“The coating has set,” Rayleigh said, drawing his attention from where it had drifted, far beyond the port and the sun setting over the grove, but Shanks didn’t turn to look at him, gaze fixed on his crew as they prepared the ship for departure. Ben was on deck, overseeing the preparations, but the usual laughter and goofing around that marked the start of a new voyage was missing. Instead, there was a new restlessness that seemed to have come to stay.

They were all eager to get going, to keep looking for her, even as reluctance held them back; the same Shanks felt, and had been feeling since deciding to make the crossing. And even if he wasn’t a stranger to following his gut, there was a part of him that hesitated, wondering if he was making a mistake, going forward.

They’d remained on Sabaody until Shanks knew within a shadow of a doubt that there was no trace of her on the archipelago. Garp had departed for Headquarters with the grim assurance that he’d go through the official channels, although there was usually little to be done for an unknown girl from a remote corner of East Blue, but going by the determined expression on Garp’s face, Shanks pitied whatever low-ranked Government clerk was tasked with convincing him of that.

It took some discussions with Ben before he decided on which route to take—to go back across Paradise or to proceed into the New World, but Shakky had assured him she’d keep an eye out on her side, and her network of contacts in Paradise was bigger than Shanks’.

And if Makino had crossed into the New World, it was crucial that he found her sooner rather than later. Paradise was one thing, but that sea was a whole other matter, and the longer she was on it, the smaller his chances of finding her alive. Resourceful as she was, that sea was feared for a reason, and by sailors more experienced than even him.

“Shanks,” Rayleigh said then, and this time Shanks dragged his eyes away from the ship to meet his, finding his features weighed with understanding. “I hope you find her.”

It wasn’t an assurance that he would that was offered, but then Rayleigh had seen more of this sea than most; had seen the best parts, and the worst, and knew the folly of promises that couldn’t be kept. Shanks did, too; had known even before he’d promised her he’d come back, but then she’d made it so easy to forget that he shouldn’t make those kind of promises—had made him want to believe that he could, and that he could have had a future with her, the one that seemed so far out of reach now, slipping through his fingers when he tried to grasp it.

“I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t,” he confessed.

He hadn’t spoken about this with anyone, not even Ben, but the weight of that knowledge had only grown heavier after they’d reached Sabaody, and they were still no closer to finding her than they had been.

He didn’t know what he’d do. His life had changed;  _was_ changed. Whatever it might have been once, Shanks knew there was no coming back from this, if he didn’t find them, or if he did and he was too late. There was no going back to how things had been, or to the person he’d been, before this. Before her.

He’d always loved kids, but he’d never given much thought to having any of his own. Not until her, who’d made him think about those things—having a home, and a family. _Children_ , and he would have loved it, Shanks thought; being a father. Being her children’s father. And even if he hadn’t yet succeeded in wrapping his head around _that_ , he wondered if he could ever think of himself as anything else, now that he knew.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said. “Not to her.”

“We can’t control the tides,” Rayleigh said, although not unkindly. “We can only do our best to keep our course steady. You’ve always had a good head on your shoulders, and you have a better sea sense than most. Follow that. It hasn’t steered you wrong yet.”

Shanks heard the words. And there was a time where he might have leaped at that kind of praise, back when he’d sought it greedily, but all he felt now was empty. What good had that sense done him? It had done nothing for Makino.

“Do you think I’m doing the right thing, Rayleigh?” he asked, looking back at the ship, nearly ready for departure. And when they left, there’d be no going back, at least not right away. It wasn’t impossible, but it was risky, and he had his crew to think about. Even making the crossing was a risk, and few ships that tried made it into the New World.

Even that was a possibility, if she had secured passage aboard a vessel.

He didn’t like to think about that.

“I don’t think there’s a right or wrong in this case,” Rayleigh said at length. “It’s anyone’s guess where she could have gone. But you won’t be any closer to finding out where unless you try.”

Shanks didn’t answer. And he tried not to let it discourage him, the fact that it had been weeks since she’d disappeared and they’d still heard nothing. He’d hoped that if she could have gotten her hands on a Den Den Mushi, she might have tried to contact Garp, or someone in Fuschia, but there’d been no calls.

He couldn’t bear the thought that she might be somewhere she couldn’t reach them; that she might have been recaptured, or in the hands of worse evils than slavers. There were enough contenders for that title on this sea.

“But I think,” Rayleigh said then, drawing his attention back, only to find an oddly tender smile on his face, “that the girl I met would find her way, whatever her chosen path.” His eyes softened, but the smile remained, as he said, “She’s brave.”

Shanks didn’t smile, and the sound that left him wasn’t a laugh, even as he heard the tenderness in it. “She is that,” he agreed, quietly.

“Shakky will be looking,” Rayleigh said. “We’ll call if we hear anything.”

Shanks nodded. “Thank you.”

Rayleigh’s smile jutted up at one corner. “She’s got a knack for observation, your girl,” he said. “The kind of natural talent that comes along once in a lifetime. I thought yours was the only one I’d see in mine.” His eyes gleamed, his glasses lifting as his smile did. “It’s an old man’s pleasure to be proven wrong. And it will serve her well, whatever comfort there is in that.”

There might have been some comfort in it, Shanks thought, if it hadn’t been for the guilt that ate at him, thinking about it.

He thought of the girl he knew, with that uncanny sense for people. The skill Rayleigh described sounded sharper than he’d known it to be, but Shanks knew what she’d been through might have had a hand in it—that the untapped powers of an untrained observation user were often awakened in dire situations, or by heavy mental trauma. And even without training, she’d been a natural, but that didn’t stop him from wondering.

“I could have taught her,” he said, the words sharp on his tongue, painful to speak. “I just didn’t think she’d ever need it.”

He didn’t know if it would have made a difference, if he’d taken the time to teach her; if it might have changed anything for her, or helped her in some way. He hadn’t even explained what it was.

“You can’t predict the future, Shanks,” Rayleigh said. “Not even Roger could do that.”

Shanks let out a bitter laugh. “Captain always knew more than he let on.”

Rayleigh’s smile was wry, and old with a hurt that had never healed right. “I never envied him that knowledge. It’s a heavier burden than anyone should bear.”

“Is it better not knowing?” Shanks asked. “If I’d known what was going to happen to her—”

He didn’t finish, but Rayleigh only looked at him, no judgement offered. And it wasn’t a question anyone could answer, not even Shanks. If his future had been laid out for him, he didn’t know how it would have changed his outlook on his life, or how it would have changed him, knowing. If it would have been a burden, knowing what would come to pass, or a blessing, being at least able to do something to change it.

“That little boy you gave your hat to,” Rayleigh said then. “You said he was from the same village.”

Shanks nodded, heart heavy with the thought. He wondered how Luffy was doing. He’d loved her, that much had been obvious. And other than Garp, he didn’t have any other family, at least as far as Shanks knew.

“It’s a tiny place,” he said. He couldn’t even imagine how they were all taking it; how fiercely the loss of her had to be felt, in the village where she’d been the beating heart. “You wouldn’t even know it was there unless you looked.” They’d discovered it by accident, after all. It didn’t feel like that now, not after her, but at the time it had.

He’d thought she’d be safe there, but if even Fuschia could be touched by the worst parts of the world, what hope did he have that she would be safe anywhere else?

“The greatest destinies often culminate in the most unlikely places,” Rayleigh said. He was looking out across the water, molten gold where it hoarded the last of the sunlight. “We speak of coincidence, but I’ve lived too long to be easily convinced of that anymore. Certain fates seem intertwined by more than just chance. I have my share of evidence to the contrary, at least.”

He looked at Shanks, smiling now. “Roger, although he introduced himself as nothing less. But my wife, too. And I never thought it was coincidence that it was our ship you bartered your way onto, back when you were a boy.”

Shanks couldn’t make himself return the smile, even as he recognised what Rayleigh was referring to; the sense that the world turned on the whims of more than just chance. He’d charted his whole life’s course around that gut-feeling. And he’d felt it, with Luffy; the indescribable but unshakeable sense that there was more to him than just another kid in a port who wanted to become a pirate. That he bore some kind of significance to Shanks' own fate.

He’d felt it with Makino, too.

“It looks like you’re ready to depart,” Rayleigh said then, and Shanks looked up at Ben on the foredeck, signalling that things were ready, even as Shanks felt anything but. And he tried to locate that gut-feeling now, that inner compass he’d wagered his life again and again, hoping it would give him some kind of assurance that he was doing the right thing, but there was nothing. For once, he was sailing blind.

It was a gamble. And he was no stranger to that, to risky bets and poor odds, and he usually thrived when the stakes were high, but it was her life on the line now, not his, and Shanks wouldn’t bet that for anything in the world.

But he had to try. Wherever she was, and whatever she was doing, he couldn’t stop looking for her. Even if it meant sailing into the most dangerous ocean in the world with his eyes shut.

 

—

 

The weeks passed her by in a blur.

The serving tray sat across her stomach, supported by her arm as she stacked it with empty cups, the weight comfortable despite the tender burden of the child in her belly, but it wasn’t an effort, bearing it, comfort rather than exertion found in the work; the small chores and routines of her job.

The bustle of the busy tavern had become more home than even the little house she called hers, which was too quiet, with just Makino and the little girl growing beneath her heart. Maybe it would be different after she was born, when it would be filled with the sound of running feet, and the laughter she always thought about when she reached within her. But while she was pregnant and it was just her on her own, it was hard enduring the silence, leaving too much room for her thoughts to sit and fester.

She’d inquired about taking up work only a few days after her arrival, having recovered from the voyage and settled into her new home, and realising that with several weeks left until the baby was due, she was thoroughly, magnificently _bored_.

She didn’t like sitting still, or for her hands to be idle. And she didn’t know if that restlessness was new or if it had always been there, but work helped. Having something to _do_ helped, but she couldn’t hunt or fight, and so she’d gone looking for something else to occupy herself.

And remembering Shakky’s bar—the quiet atmosphere, and the little chores she’d enjoyed—the tavern had seemed a logical choice. And although pregnant women weren’t expected to work, they didn’t believe in coddling, and Makino’s offer of assistance had been welcomed without hesitation.

Gorgon’s owner was an older woman. Aster, loud and kind, her white hair in thick braids coiled back and wrapped with multiple scarves, and her dark skin an impressive map of vicious, bone-white scars.

“Snake wrestling,” she’d announced with a wink, when she’d caught Makino failing at stealing a subtle glance, and had laughed when her eyes had bulged.

She was blind in one eye, but very little slipped past the other, sharp and gleaming and yellow like a snake’s. She’d taken one look at Makino when she’d first stepped through her doors, already knowing the story, her memory loss and Sabaody, but all she’d asked was, “When can you start?”

Makino looked out across the bar now, the early-morning patrons gathered around the long table spanning the whole width of the room. It seated fifty people with ease, and the rest of the room seemed arranged around it.

It was bigger than Shakky’s had been; a square, spacious room with a polished counter and a mirror spanning the whole back wall, and a heavy lamp in intricate metalwork suspended from the centre of the ceiling. The front opened up into the street, the whole wall like a single set of doors, spread wide and invitingly and allowing the noise of the market to pour back in, along with the heat. Swathes of sheer fabric dyed in sea-greens and blues spilled from the ceiling, pulled back from the wide-open mouth when they weren’t used to keep the mosquitos out in the evenings.

It had a brewery attached, and a generous storeroom. They imported nothing here, dependent on no one but themselves, even in this.

She loved the mood of the tavern in the morning, and the regular patrons who stopped by before they left to hunt. And she loved the busy afternoons; the hundred feet who stepped across their threshold, some asking for a drink, others just to exchange a few words. But most of all, she loved the late evenings, when the day’s doings were over and the whole tavern filled up, so much laughter and noise there was barely any room to think.

Sometimes even Hancock would join them, a steady presence at the heart of the thriving noise of her tribe, although she said little, but Makino had learned to know her presence, and to move around it; had learned her poison of preference, and that you could say more with the silent offer of a favoured drink than you might with an attempted conversation.

And it came easy to her, Makino found—learning people, and knowing them. She remembered names, and little details; favourite drinks and meals, and their daily schedules. She kept track, not just of orders and inventory but of the patrons who visited; the people in the place she’d started to tentatively call _home_.

She loved it, the work and the people; the noise and the routines. Moving about was difficult with her stomach so big, but she made do, taking the time she needed with her small chores, feeling the baby in her belly kicking as she wiped tables and polished glasses, the conversation around her ebbing and swelling as the morning sun stretched long as a languid cat across the floorboards, the quiet stirred only by the rustle of the newspaper and the smell of jasmine tea brewing in the kitchen.

She was still learning to know herself. And whether she was just relearning things she’d forgotten or discovering new aspects of herself, it didn’t really matter. She’d find herself, eventually, whoever she was. And if she did get her memories back, it wouldn’t change the things that had happened to her. They were part of her now, too, memory loss included.

“Did you hear about Sabaody?”

Her heart stuttered a beat, and Makino felt her hand pausing on the cup she’d been reaching for, attention drawn further down the long table, to the group of women talking. They were regulars around this hour, having already finished their day’s work, all of them up before the sun to fish beyond the reef. A dangerous occupation, Makino knew, from the vicious scars they all bore, their arms and legs wrapped in them, but then she’d seen with her own eyes just what kind of sea creatures frequented these shores.

“No?” one of them asked, leaning in.

“That auction house, where Kikyo-chan was?” There was a rustle of a newspaper being opened, and then, “Look.”

She was eavesdropping know, Makino knew, but couldn’t seem to will herself to turn away from their conversation, the quiet murmurs leaving the warm atmosphere undisturbed, but the subject had seized her focus like a fish hook.

There was a low gasp. “ _Destroyed_?”

“Completely. They said it was a pirate who did it.”

“A _pirate_?”

“Hm. Some big shot from West Blue. Red-Hair something or the other. Ah, there—Red-Haired Shanks.”

There was more rustling of paper as a page was flipped.

“Oh, he’s _handsome_.” Then with a gasp, “And his bounty! It’s bigger than Hime-sama’s!”

“They just raised it, too. Added two whole zeroes for what he did.”

A hushed chorus of awed murmurs washed across the room, reaching her where she stood. Makino had to fight down the impulse to walk over to their table and ask if she could see the paper, and the man responsible. It had to be an older edition—it took time for news to reach them, hidden away as they were, but it didn’t matter if it was several weeks old. Not to her.

“Makino?”

She blinked, and looked up to find Kikyo standing on the other side of the table where she’d been clearing away the cups—or rather, neglecting it, and probably doing a poor job of hiding the fact.

Makino saw as she flicked her eyes towards the women across the room, and didn’t need to ask if she’d heard their conversation coming in.

“An interesting piece of news,” Kikyo mused instead, although her voice didn’t let slip what she thought about it.

Makino felt how her hands shook where she gripped the serving tray, rattling the cups on it, and carefully put it down on the table. If Kikyo noticed, she didn't mention it.

“Why do you think someone would do that?” she asked, looking up to meet her eyes. She’d learned enough about the Celestial Dragons to understand that such an action wasn’t committed lightly, unless by a complete idiot. She couldn’t entirely dismiss that option, though.

Kikyo only shrugged, her eyes on the women across the room, and the newspaper spread out on the table between them. Makino didn’t know if she’d read the article. “Who knows? Perhaps he lost a bid. A man’s temper can be like a child’s—quickly ignited, but not as easily doused.” She looked at Makino then, and she must have found something on her face, because her own expression eased a bit, as she said, “Or perhaps he recognised the injustice of it all. Pirates live outside the law, but not all of them are lawless.”

Makino felt how her mouth firmed. “Do you really believe that?”

Kikyo didn’t quite smile, but her words were genuine when she said, “There are good men on this sea, for all that I have yet to meet them. I don’t know enough of the situation to pass judgement on this one. But does it matter? Whatever his motivations, his actions helped those who were kept there escape. We don’t need to thank him for it, but we can still be thankful that it happened.”

Makino didn’t reply, considering the serving tray, and the roundness of her stomach under her apron. And maybe Kikyo was right—maybe it didn’t matter why he’d done it, although even seeing her point, Makino found it surprisingly hard to let her curiosity go now that it had taken root.

She didn’t know what could possibly prompt a single pirate into such a reckless act, knowing the consequences as she did now. But she had to wonder.

“Come,” Kikyo said then. “You’re due for a break, yes? There’s something I’d like you to see.”

Makino blinked. “What?”

She only got a smile for that, but when Kikyo motioned for her to follow, Makino hesitated only a moment before leaving her tray where it was, a questioning glance stolen across the room, but Aster only smiled, as though somehow privy to Kikyo’s plans, and waved them both off.

And wherever Kikyo was taking her, they weren’t the only ones headed in that direction. In fact, as they made to leave the tavern, most of its occupants got up to leave with them, and as they walked out into the street, Makino saw there were others leaving their work, their shops and stalls closed, and all of them falling into step with them.

“There’s a fight scheduled in the battle ring,” Kikyo explained, drawing her attention back from where it had drifted to the women walking alongside them, talking eagerly among themselves, their excitement palpable. “We arrange them from time to time, when Hime-sama is home.”

“A fight?” Makino asked.

Kikyo nodded. “It’s a way for us to demonstrate our skills. And to blow off steam. It’s quite fun.”

Makino looked at the other women, the weapons on their hips and slung across their backs. She’d only ever witnessed Kikyo’s skills in action, but she’d seen the carcasses brought back from their hunts, and the scars they wore. And that seemingly innate grace they all had; the power that all but radiated off them, even the local shop owners. Everyone on Amazon Lily could _fight_ , she had no doubt about that, but she hadn’t thought they’d fight each other, and for sport.

“Isn’t it dangerous?”

Kikyo’s smile flashed, wide with half-feral delight. “That’s half the fun.”

Makino said nothing to that, watching instead as they walked away from the town proper and towards the winding stone steps climbing up the mountainside. She’d only ever seen them from afar, not even having _considered_ climbing them in her condition, but they made to do so now, and she swallowed down the dread rising in her chest as she raised her eyes to the top, so high up she couldn’t even see it.

But, “Take your time,” Kikyo said simply, and matched her pace with her own, the women around them greeting them as they passed, and remarking to Makino how well she looked—how strong, and it was a startled smile that found her, her heart skipping with the praise, which wasn’t offered out of sympathy, or false pretence. Even if she couldn’t fight like them, they’d never once treated her as inferior for it, or looked at her as weak, least of all because of her condition.

Of course, her condition felt glaringly apparent now as she struggled up the steps, the awkward size of her very pregnant stomach making her ascension anything but graceful.

“How many more are left?” she gasped, when they’d walked what felt like the length of the whole island, but in a steep incline. She was sweating through her dress, and her feet ached with every step. Her only consolation was the shade offered by the mountain, allowing respite from the sun pouring down on the town far below.

Makino made an active point not to look over the edge, fearing that if she did, her breakfast would come back up and go right over the side.

She heard the amusement in her voice as Kikyo asked from somewhere above her, “Would you like me to tell you the truth, or lie to make you feel better?”

Makino heaved a breath through her nose. A trickle of sweat ran down her temple where she’d tried to braid back her hair, although it was still a little short for that, and she felt it coming loose as she bent across her knees. “Lie, please.”

“We’re nearly there,” Kikyo crooned, a smile brimming in the words. “Just a few more steps.”

A quiet oath murmured under her breath, Makino pushed herself up, and very resolutely didn’t lift her eyes further than the steps immediately in front of her as she picked up her feet again. There was a sprig of stubbornness growing within her, urged by the thought that she should have endured all she had over the few weeks of her life she could even remember, only to be defeated by a flight of _stairs_.

She felt the flicker of admiration, not just from Kikyo but from those who passed them, and used it to bolster her own conviction, as she set her jaw and cupped her stomach, and continued to climb the steps.

They eventually reached the top, and Makino had to take a moment just to catch her breath, but Kikyo waited, not so much as a hitch in her patience as she gathered herself, before she raised her head to announce she was ready to continue, their destination within sight now—a high curtain wall that blocked out the sun, beyond which had to be the battle ring Kikyo had mentioned.

“Let’s find our seats,” Kikyo said, and with her eyes still on the towering wall, Makino could do nothing but follow.

They walked through an arching doorway and along a cramped corridor, and Makino tried not to flinch at the resurgence of familiarity, remembering the doors of the auction house, and it took a second to blink her eyes and assure herself there were no shackles around her wrists, even as she felt how her hands shook where they cradled her belly.

But unlike the auction house, they didn’t step into a basement this time, as Kikyo led her through another doorway, sunlight waiting beyond, and Makino drew a relieved breath as they stepped through and back into open air, before she was brought to a sudden halt by the sight that greeted them.

The battle ring was vast, seeming carved out of the mountain itself where it sat in a sunken hollow, a three-tiered platform in grey stone elevated above an unforgiving drop, and a deep chasm that upon closer inspection she saw was filled with deadly spikes.

She was gaping, she realised with a start when Kikyo gave a small laugh, and it took a gentle nudge to her shoulder to drag her eyes away from the ring, and for her feet to carry her to the row of seats closest to them.

“This is where you fight?” Makino blurted. “ _Each other_?”

Kikyo only smiled. “A fight without a little risk is only a sparring match. This is how we hone our skills. Our warriors are the strongest on this island. What better opponents than each other?”

When Makino could only gape, Kikyo’s smile stretched to a grin. “It’s all very civil,” she assured her, with a clever wink. “We’re not barbarians.”

She might have found some kind of retort to that, but wasn’t given the chance to think of one as the crowd suddenly erupted into cheers, and a familiar shape stepped into sight across the battle ring, in the red-roofed pagoda that sat mounted like a throne above the platform.

Makino had felt her approach before she arrived, but watched as Hancock took a seat, her royal retinue behind her and her sisters on either side. She was in full armour, something almost ceremonial about the proceedings as she threw one leg over the other, her back straight as she surveyed the battle ring, and the warriors below.

The two women standing on the platform turned to face the pagoda, bowing deeply, before they faced each other, their Empress’ arrival acknowledged and the fight about to commence. Makino recognised them immediately—cheerful Jonquil, who owned a little bakery in the street where she lived, and Winterberry, who dyed fabrics for a living and who had three daughters Makino’s age. They’d exchanged the tools of their usual trades for weapons now, she saw, eyes wide as she took in the halberd in Jonquil’s hands, and the long spool of fabric held between Winterberry’s dye-flecked fingers, at each end of which had been fastened a wicked-sharp blade.

“Hime-sama oversees the battles,” Kikyo explained, as the two women faced off. “She decides the winner. Many use this as an opportunity to vie for a place among her crew. It is the highest of honours, to win our Empress’ favour in this way.”

Makino was barely listening, enraptured by the sight, and she only realised she’d been holding her breath when the two women suddenly _moved_ , and it rushed out of her with a gasp.

Their weapons clashed, before they sprung apart, Jonquil’s halberd raised to deflect one of the blades sent soaring through the air towards her, the brightly coloured fabric twisting like a rainbow as her opponent pulled her weapon back, only to launch it in another assault.

Makino could only stare, utterly spellbound.

They moved like water, soft and sharp all at once, a continuous dance of push and pull, their blades clashing, the steel-sharp song ringing out, louder than the crowd as they advanced, like tides overtaking each other, parrying each other’s attacks and ducking out of the way in seemingly impossible moves.

Winterberry landed a blow—a blade nicking Jonquil’s bicep, and Makino felt rather than saw her flinch, although it barely put a stutter in her step as she twisted to grab the fabric attached to the blade, a sharp _yank_ bringing her opponent forward.

Winterberry stumbled, but before she could go down, twisted around, the long length of fabric pulled back towards her before she sent the second blade flying.

Leaping back, Jonquil landed smoothly on her feet, and another roar of cheers broke out, drowning out every other noise in the ring, and the sound might have made her flinch, recalling the last time she’d heard such a noise, but she was too enthralled by the sight before her to make the connection, wrapped up in it all; the roar of delight like a drum deep within her, setting her heart racing in her chest, a thrill that left her short of breath as she watched the women fighting, graceful like dancers but with deadly intent.

Makino felt them in her mind, sharper than what her eyes showed her; felt how they moved, every duck and parry, her senses so attuned and so accurate she almost thought she could predict what they were about to do, and when she tried and _succeeded_ three times over, was so caught up in the fight to even question if that was entirely normal.

The tip of Jonquil’s halberd caught the very edge of a shoulder-guard, knocking Winterberry back a step, before she answered by reaching forward, fingers curled around the haft before she twisted it into her own hand, only to launch the whole weapon back at her opponent, and this time when the crowd responded, Makino was surprised to hear her own voice joining in.

Beside her, Kikyo laughed, the sound drowned by the roaring crowd, but all Makino could do was grin, helplessly delighted.

There was a sudden clenching then, low in her stomach, and she breathed out of her mouth sharply, surprised by the sensation. Shifting her hand lower on her belly, Makino rubbed at it, her jaw set as the pain persisted, before it stopped, and she let loose a relieved breath.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she heard Kikyo’s voice over the din. “What’s wrong?”

Makino waved her off, smoothing her hand over her stomach where her baby moved. “Nothing. It’s just a cramp.”

Kikyo didn’t argue, and Makino returned her focus to the fight, and the two warriors trying to out-manoeuvre each other, the crowd cheering them on loudly.

A near miss saw Jonquil nearly shoved off the edge of the platform, and Makino’s heart leaping in her throat along with her voice, but her laugh was quick and relieved when Jonquil used her own momentum to propel herself back into the ring, her halberd clattering into the chasm behind her, but she didn’t let that stop her, only cracked her knuckles, seeming intent on continuing the fight bare-handed.

She felt another cramp as the two women leaped at each other, this time painful enough to drag a startled sound from her chest, and she felt how Kikyo reacted, rising from her seat.

It took several seconds for it to pass, and Makino clenched her eyes shut, hunched over in her seat as she gripped her stomach, biting off the groan with her teeth.

“Ah,” she heard Kikyo saying then, a chuckle accompanying the sound, although Makino didn’t know what was so funny. “Come on,” she continued, before a strong hand curved under her elbow, to lift her out of her seat.

“Wait,” Makino said, breathless. The cramp had passed, but she realised that Kikyo was directing her towards the exit. “Where are we going? The fight isn’t over yet—”

She didn’t get to finish, the last word swallowed by the shout that ripped from her as she bent double, clutching her belly, the cramp so painful she had to stop walking.

The women around them had taken notice now, and Makino sensed as their attentions left the still-ongoing fight to settle on her, before she felt their hands on her shoulders, and their concern as they inquired what was wrong.

“It’s time,” was all Kikyo said, and their worry brightened to delight along with their voices. Distracted by the pain, Makino couldn't guess what they were so excited about.

“Time for what?” she asked through clenched teeth. That last cramp had _hurt_.

“For your daughter to make her arrival,” Kikyo explained patiently, although it took a moment for Makino to register what she was even saying, but when she did it wasn’t panic that found her.

“I can’t walk down all those steps,” she blurted, but Kikyo’s calm didn’t stutter, even with the soft laugh that left her.

“Always so practical. Don’t worry, we’ll find an alternative.”

“What?” Makino breathed, feeling the first stirrings of genuine distress now at the prospect of giving birth anywhere but her own house, and didn’t know where the remark came from, as she said, “The battle ring? Because I doubt they came to see _that_!”

This time Kikyo laughed outright, and Makino was sorely tempted to point out that there was nothing even remotely funny about her current predicament, but before she could open her mouth to speak, found her words interrupted by the shout that shoved up her throat instead.

 _Not yet_ , she thought, as the contraction continued and she clenched her teeth down over the sob that followed. _Not yet, impatient little girl. I’m not ready yet!_

“She’s in a hurry,” Kikyo mused, as though in agreement. “She’ll be today’s main attraction at this rate. Perhaps that was her intention.”

“Not—” Makino breathed over a moan, “— _funny_.”

She felt the telling prickling along the back of her neck, and turned her gaze towards the pagoda on the opposite side of the ring, the distance too far to make out her eyes, even as she felt Hancock’s attention.

It lasted only a beat, the tether of her focus broken as another contraction hit, and Makino bit down to suffocate a scream.

“Come on, little warrior,” Kikyo said, gripping her elbow as she made to direct her towards the exit, and even if Makino had no idea where they were going, or how they’d even get back down from the mountain, Kikyo seemed curiously certain.

“You have your own battle to win.”

 

—

 

Fishman Island was like he remembered.

It took him a moment to realise it—that not much had changed in the decade since he’d last visited. And he’d been a different pirate then, young and impatient and easily distracted, and too quick to take the whole of it in; the fey beauty, and the marvel of it all. An island under the sea.

But even now that he was older, calmer, Shanks found that his mind was elsewhere, wandering away from what was in front of him, his eyes barely seeing what he was looking at as they made to disembark.

He observed the busy wharf—the fishmen and mermaids who went about their business, only paying them fleeting glances as they passed. Human tourists weren’t rare, pirates even less so, and some showed their intrigue more openly than others. Shanks felt it all, curiosity and indifference and contempt, but allowed it to glance off him as they made their way into the island from where they’d moored the ship.

He felt the wandering gazes of his crew, taking in their surroundings, their presences a mixture of awe and trepidation, which was only to be expected of first-timers. Had the situation been different, he might have managed a smile at their gobsmacked reactions, their eyes raised to the sea beyond the bubble wall.

It wasn’t quite anticipation, the restlessness he felt as his eyes scanned the crowd, and the island proper. He didn’t allow it to become that, knowing that their chances of finding even a trace of her were slim. But if she had crossed into the New World by ship, she would have had to go through Fishman Island, and if she had, someone might have seen her. All they needed was a ship’s name, and its intended destination.

He didn’t dare hope that she might still be _here_ , although even as he consciously worked to maintain his expectations, Shanks couldn’t help but want to be optimistic—to hope that he’d find her, alive and well. That he could take her back to Fuschia—or the still more tentative hope; that she might wish to stay with him, if he asked her.

But he didn’t know what state he’d find her in. Shakky’s recount had made him hopeful; had assured him she wasn’t hurt, or their child, but that was weeks ago now. He had no idea what had happened to her since then.

It was also nine months since he’d left Fuschia, almost to the date. If she hadn’t had the baby by now, she would be due any day.

“You’re thinking about it,” Ben remarked, and Shanks started, wondering if he’d spoken the words aloud, but a glance at his first mate told him his face had done the talking for him.

“It’s hard not to,” Shanks said, looking out across the crowd. They’d come to a stop, a busy junction straight ahead of them, shops and market stalls lining the street on either side. Shanks watched the vendors, and the people pausing to peruse their wares, but no one had her tiny stature, or her sea glass hair. “I don’t know if I should be looking for a pregnant girl, or one with a baby.”

Ben’s expression conveyed understanding, as he came to stand beside him. “It is likely that she’s had it by now,” he said. “We should at least consider it a very real possibility.”

Shanks didn’t answer, just continued watching the street, and the thriving hub; the merfolk moving about, colourful tail fins and human fashion blending together in a seamless cacophony that belied the ever-present undercurrent of racial tension that marked the everyday lives of the island’s inhabitants. But at least on the surface, there was peace, was prosperity, and Fishman Island boasted a flourishing culture that had no equal in the surface world.

She would have loved it, he thought. Mermaids were things that belonged to her favourite books, and she’d accused him of lying when he’d told her they existed, that he’d seen them with his own eyes, and he would have loved seeing hers go wide with amazement as she realised he’d been telling the truth. However skeptical she’d been to his recounts of his adventures, she was so easily spellbound by them, and showed it with her whole body. He would have loved showing her this.

They passed a small establishment; a little tea house tucked into the nook of a thick cluster of brightly coloured corals sprouting from the island floor, the natural growths crowned in reds and blues and every nuance between, and carved hollow to accommodate the shops and taphouses that beckoned tourists and locals both. Shanks was barely paying attention to where they were going, although his senses were sharpened, as they always where. There wasn’t a moment he wasn’t searching for her, hoping that he might feel her somewhere, knowing that he would recognise her if he did.

Fleetingly, he caught the gaze of the mermaid seated on the steps outside the teahouse. A pretty girl with a shark’s tail, the tip dancing idly back and forth, the way a human’s legs might tread shallow water. She had the hood of her jacket drawn over her dark hair, and the thin mouth of a long-stemmed pipe tucked between her lips.

Shanks felt her eyes on him as he passed, her presence inquisitive, a spark of curiosity he wasn’t unfamiliar with, but didn’t pay her any mind as he turned his focus forward, searching the crowd.

“She looks like you,” her voice called out then, a hint of bemusement in the dulcet lilt. “Your daughter.”

He went still. Beside him, Ben and Yasopp had paused, followed by the rest of his crew who’d been walking alongside them.

Shanks turned his head to find her watching him, seeming wholly unperturbed by the fact that she now had the undivided attention of his entire crew. Most merfolk were wary of humans, and with good reason, but this one seemed more curious than anything else, although it was hard thinking past what she’d just told him.

She cocked her head to the side where she considered him, although her gaze was elsewhere.

“Not your eyes, though,” she said then, almost to herself. “They’re too dark for that.”

Her brows furrowed a bit, her curiosity a different sort now, no doubt reading his expression for what it was; that still-open wound.

“Shyarly,” she said, lifting the pipe from her lips. It took Shanks a second to realise she was introducing herself. “I’m a fortune teller. Well—I’m a _seer,_ if you want to get technical, but ‘fortune teller’ is better advertising. Don’t be fooled by the missing crystal ball; I’m still very much in the business of destiny. Predicting it, at least.”

Shanks barely allowed her to finish before he asked, “What did you see?”

If she found his lack of manners off-putting, she didn’t show it, but if her abilities were real, this couldn’t be the first time she’d served someone a vision they hadn’t expected.

She met his eyes, her own a bright, glacial blue and slitted like a shark’s. She seemed to look _through_ him.

“A little girl,” she said, as though describing what she was seeing. “I only guessed she was yours by the hair.” There was a second where she seemed to retreat within herself. “She’s bathing in the shallows. The water is clear. There’s an anchor, but it’s too small for a ship. And there’s a woman. She’s calling for her.” She hummed. “She’s very beautiful.” She looked up at him. “The eyes must be from her.”

His heart had stopped. He wasn’t even sure he was breathing.

“I’m sorry,” she said then, her look softening a bit. “Sometimes they leap out at me—the visions. I have the feeling I hit a nerve.”

She’d barely finished speaking when Shanks was striding towards her, not even thinking of how it must look, but she didn’t so much as flinch. “You _saw_ —”

He didn’t know what he was even asking. Hell, he didn’t even know why he _was_ asking, or giving her the time of day.

The mermaid— _Shyarly_ , she’d called herself—only looked at him, towering above her. “I don’t always know what they mean, or when they’ll come to pass,” she said, and with a patience that told him his reaction wasn't anything new. “I only know what I see.”

“And you _saw_ her,” Shanks said roughly, and didn’t care how hopeful he sounded. “My—”

He couldn’t say it. It seemed too much, suddenly—too much to believe.

Shyarly only peered up at him, unfazed by his reaction, and he wondered what she was thinking, but then, “Where is she right now?” she asked.

Shanks felt the way his chest constricted, faced with the question he’d been asking himself for weeks. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “I’m looking for her mother.”

Her brows lifted a bit, before they furrowed. “Did she run away?” she asked, her voice sharpened to a harder edge. _From you?_ was what she didn’t say, but Shanks still heard it.

“She was captured by slavers,” he said, and saw how her expression changed—the sudden understanding in it.

“Oh.” The emotion that flickered across her face was genuine in its sudden fierceness, as she told him, “I’m sorry.” Then, “It makes sense now,” she said. “Your reaction.”

When he frowned, she explained, “Telling the future is a thankless job, usually. I tend to only tell people what they want to hear—the good things, you know? The handsome strangers they’ll meet, or the money they’ll earn. No one wants to hear about the really life-changing things.” She paused, her smile wryly sombre. “Illness, or death. They don’t want that burden.” She gave a small shrug. “I never asked for it, either, but there you go.”

She looked at him, assessing. “I usually hold my tongue, but sometimes I can’t help it. Some people compel visions more than others.” She cocked her head slightly, her shark’s eyes narrowing a bit. “I’ve learned to be wary of people like that. The ones who change the currents.”

Shanks only met her gaze, unflinching. And he should be more wary, he thought—shouldn’t be so quick to believe what she was telling him, except he _felt_ it, looking at her; that unwavering presence, wholly confident in the truth of her own words. If anything, _she_ believed her powers were real.

He barely knew what he was thinking, his thoughts racing, too fast for him to keep up, but, “Shallows,” Shanks said, latching on to the word. “You said she was playing in the shallows. Do you know where?”

Shyarly shook her head. “I only had a glimpse. And I wouldn’t know, either way. I’ve never been topside.”

Shanks turned to Ben. “Fuschia?”

Ben was watching the mermaid, his expression considering, although not doubtful, as Shanks would have expected. Ben didn’t believe in fate, or fortune tellers, but, “Could be,” he said at length. “They’re the clearest waters I’ve ever seen. And it would make sense for her to go back there.”

“It’s in your future,” Shyarly said, drawing both their gazes back on her, along with those of the rest of his crew, and Shanks felt as his heart seized at the remark. “That’s all I know for sure.”

The hope was almost more than he could take.

“The girl,” Shanks said, his voice rasping over the words. Gods, a _daughter_. “How old do you think she was? In your vision.”

Shyarly seemed to consider the question, withdrawing back within herself. Shanks watched her, feeling his own heart; the whole, ravaged shape of it. And he didn’t know what he even wanted her to say. She hadn’t seen _him_ in the vision, and he didn’t know what that meant—if it meant he would find them, if he was destined to be there with them.

“Ten years old?” she chanced, with a shrug. “Maybe. It’s hard to tell with humans.”

He didn’t know if it was a relief, hearing it. Shanks had no idea what he was even feeling, but whatever it was, it had to be visible on his face, because she seemed to take pity on him, regret written across her features, before she said, “She was laughing. The girl. She looked happy. Her mother, too.”

Shanks could only stare at her, watching him back. It was taking conscious effort just to locate his thoughts.

_Ten years._

It always came back to that, with them, but he didn’t know if it was a blessing now or just the opposite. He still had no idea where they were, or how he’d even find them.

But one thing he did know. “If they’re both alive in ten years,” he said to Ben, “that means they are now. And if that was a vision of _my_ future—”

He let the words trail off, the implication clear, and he saw that Ben understood, his expression still contemplative, but in a way that assured Shanks he was arranging a new strategy, not doubting his captain’s sanity.

“A girl, huh?” Yasopp spoke up then, his voice jarring the sudden quiet, sounding half-marvelling, and Shanks heard the others responding, their voices raised as they considered what had been put before them and eagerly, and it felt like being able to _breathe_ again; like he wasn’t just aimlessly searching, trying in vain to hold on to a future he didn’t even know would come to pass, knowing instead that there _was_ a future—and that they were both in it.

The mermaid watched him, something behind her eyes that Shanks couldn't name, her look curiously pensive, before it smoothed out, leaving her features carefully considering.

Had he been more in control of his mental faculties, he might have asked her what that look meant, and if there was something she'd neglected to tell him, but as it was, he was too busy trying to wrap his head around what she'd just told him.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it—a little girl. A little girl with his hair and Makino's eyes, and he thought he might have wept, or laughed, and didn’t know if the sound that left him answered to one or both or neither, and it _hurt_ , feeling so relieved—so deliriously, breathlessly _happy_ , and after so long he’d thought he’d forgotten what happiness even felt like.

 _A daughter_.

 

—

 

“She’s not going to come out by herself, Makino. _Push_.”

“Are you sure?” Makino grit out, teeth clenched so hard her whole jaw ached. “I feel like we should let her try.”

She got a smile for that; a bright flash of a grin from between her knees, but, “Come on,” said the midwife, whose entirely unhelpful cheer might have fooled someone into thinking she was a mellow, soft-natured person, except that Makino had already discovered that beneath her happy veneer was a backbone like metal, and a no-nonsense efficiency that didn’t leave room for protest, or whining.

It was a bit unfair, really. She was pushing a baby out of her body—she felt like she had the right to whine a _little._

The midwife flicked her eyes up, smiling, as though she’d read her thoughts, but then she probably had; Makino had frequently been told she had an incredibly expressive face. “It’s called _labour_ for a reason,” she quipped.

Makino wanted to toss the pillow at her head.

Her eyes stung from the sweat pouring down her face as she raised them to the ceiling, taking in the red marble columns and the engravings, and the breathtaking paintings spanning high above her head, depicting a lush, living garden in emerald green, and serpents in a thousand colours intertwined with the branches and the foliage, like gem-encrusted necklaces across the throats of the trees. It wasn’t a very big room, but the opulence made it seem grander, somehow. Polished brass lamps had been lit along the walls, sending shadows of fire dancing across the hardwood floor. The heady smell of incense clung to the air thickly, stirred by the breeze breathing through the open balcony doors.

She'd brought her to the _palace_ , of all possible places. Makino didn’t know what had passed between Kikyo and Hancock in the battle ring earlier, but when they’d arrived there’d been a futon ready, the midwife having already rolled up her sleeves, and she hadn’t been given the chance to even question the arrangement before she’d been ushered to lie down, after which the pain had taken precedent, as, for all her initial hurry, her daughter took her sweet time coming into the world.

She didn’t know how much time had passed since Kikyo had brought her, half-carrying her the last few steps, but going by the dim light and the lanterns, Makino knew the sun must have gone down.

“Again,” said the midwife, the command brooking no argument, and Makino squeezed her eyes shut as she  _pushed_.

The pain was unbearable, like her whole body was coming apart, sweat running down her temples in rivulets as she bit her teeth together and repeated. She didn’t understand how it had been made to endure this, that it should even be possible, she was so small and the baby was so big, and she swallowed the sob that threatened to follow the thought; that even with the midwife and two of the palace maids attending, she’d never felt so alone, in the short two months she remembered of her life.

“ _Again_.”

She did—channelled all her strength into it, and the feelings brimming within her; all her loneliness and the uncertainty she’d spent weeks combating, searching for something to keep her hands busy, and to keep people around her, if only so she wouldn’t let herself dwell on the thought that resurfaced every time her daughter kicked, imagining the man who’d had a part in creating her.

And it wasn’t fair that she should be doing it all by herself—that she should even have to carry this burden by herself, however her baby had been conceived, although she didn’t know if she was angry that she’d been put in this situation in the first place, or grieving the fact that she was doing it alone.

The sudden relief overtook her so quickly, it took the rest of her a second to follow, and to realise that it was _over_ —took her actually hearing the little wail piercing the air to understand what had happened.

Makino collapsed back against the pillows, her ears ringing, and when she closed her eyes she thought she’d never been so exhausted, even climbing those endless stairs to the battle ring.

She was only dimly aware of movement around her—of quick words exchanged in calm voices, but she felt the midwife in her periphery, and knew from her presence that nothing was amiss; felt the untouched surface of her calm, barely disturbed by the easy efficiency of someone wholly certain in their skill.

“Here she is,” the midwife said then, with a marvelling laugh, and when Makino blinked her eyes open it was to find her holding out her arms, cradling a tiny, wrapped bundle.

Her own shook as she helped place the baby against her breast, the little weight stealing a hitch from her breath, before the sight of her took the rest of it.

She was so small. Makino almost couldn’t believe it, and even having found her breath again, she couldn’t help but hold it, taking her in; the tiny shape of her, and her elfin features, wrapped snugly in a soft blanket. She’d ceased her wailing, and was making the softest little sounds, her delicate newborn features scrunched up, adorably wrinkled.

“Look at that colouring!” the midwife exclaimed, her voice warmed with laughter and honest amazement, before she slipped Makino a knowing glance. “Not yours, that.”

Makino couldn’t even summon her voice to agree, attention seized by the same sight; the soft down of her daughter’s hair where it dusted the perfect shape of her skull.

It was red. Spectacularly, unapologetically _red_.

“No,” Makino agreed softly, touching shaking fingers to the crown of her head. But where she might have felt wary at the thought—that any part of her child should come from the man who’d sired her, with whatever intent—she felt nothing but tender amazement now, watching her daughter. _Hers_ , no matter her features, and whoever she’d inherited them from.

She touched the downy strands again, a wet laugh blurting from her as she brushed her fingers through it, the colour so bright she could hardly believe it, but it seemed fitting, somehow, remembering the warmth she’d carried within her all those weeks, her belly heavy with it, and that she still felt, tucked against her breast now. Red, like a little lion’s mane; like the fierce little heart that had grown beneath her own.

Something tugged at the back of her mind, watching it, bright against her soft, pink cheeks. It was the uncomfortable thought that there was something she should remember, something she’d seen or read that was significant, but as it was, Makino was too happy to linger on what she couldn’t recall; was too busy making new memories to fill her heart, of the way her daughter looked, and breathed, and slept in her arms. Nothing beyond that mattered.

She wondered idly if it ever had.

 

—

 

With Shyarly’s premonition ringing in his ears, they finished their crossing into the New World.

He still wasn’t sleeping well, but new purpose kept his mind occupied in the waking world, and some days he exhausted himself enough to get a whole night’s undisturbed rest, even as most were filled with dreams of her, some kinder than others, although those that were the most merciless were the good ones—the ones that saw him waking, smiling as he reached for a body that wasn’t there, or the ones where his mind spun to life that little girl with red hair, playing in the shallows.

He got reckless. He purposefully put himself in the navy’s sight, made himself seen, and heard, and _notorious_. He made the newspapers, each headline more outrageous than the last. They called him an upstart; a remnant of Roger’s era that should have died with it. The Celestial Dragons called for his corpse on an execution platform, but the navy was reluctant to intervene. Shanks sometimes wondered if Garp had a hand in that, but hadn’t asked.

But he left an obvious trail, made himself known, if only so she would have somewhere to go, and some way to find him, if she was looking. Shanks couldn’t imagine that she wouldn't _try_ , that she wasn’t stubborn enough to manage just that, even on this sea which bent to no one’s will, and which defied even the strongest.

But that sea also made it difficult to travel, he knew. Even experienced captains quailed at the notion of sailing it, and it wasn’t experience so much as dumb luck and a healthy dose of devil-may-care that was required to successfully navigate that temper. And if she had a new baby to care for, she wouldn’t put herself in danger trying. Not Makino, who never put her own needs first.

And so Shanks channelled all his efforts into finding her first. They stopped at every island they passed, and made efforts to go out of their way, the languid pace they might have once greeted the wilful currents exchanged with a thoroughness that left no stone unturned, even at the bottom of the sea. Ben’s network grew, along with their notoriety, until Shanks was in the newspaper every other day, but still there was no sign of her, and no word from Garp.

The thought was an ugly one, but it kept finding him; the fear that she might not want anything to do with him anymore. That she’d seen more of his world than she’d ever wanted to know, and that she couldn’t bear to even look at him anymore without remembering. That she blamed him in some part for what she’d been through.

He couldn’t think that way. He didn’t think he could survive if he let himself succumb to that fear; that the reason why he couldn’t find her was because she didn’t want him to.

He had to keep trying; had to hear it in her own words, if that was really how she felt. Until then, he wouldn’t stop looking for her. Not while he still breathed.

But this sea was too vast, and even with their efforts, they didn’t stand a chance at covering even a fraction of it. And every day they didn’t find her was another day she spent, on an ocean she didn’t know; was another day their daughter grew older, and another day Shanks didn’t know her.

He knew he needed help, if he wanted to have any chance at finding them.

“A child?”

Mihawk’s voice let slip a note of honest surprise—a rarity if Shanks had ever known one, but he had no amusement to counter it with. He didn’t think he could have mustered it if he’d tried.

“She’d be born by now,” Shanks said, observing the map spread out across his desk. His thoughts kept coming back to the same thing, wondering if she was healthy, if they were both _safe._ “A few days old, or barely that.” He’d counted them all, every single one, even as he still couldn’t be sure.

Mihawk’s brows quirked. “She?”

“There was a seer on Fishman Island,” Shanks said, and was surprised when Mihawk made a noise of wry understanding.

“I am familiar with the one. She told you?”

Shanks nodded. “She had a vision.”

“What did she see?”

Shanks told him—about the little girl in the shallows. The ten years Shyarly had estimated.

Mihawk’s look didn’t exactly soften, but there was a weight behind it that didn’t let itself be ambiguous. And he already knew about Makino. Shanks had told him, months ago now before he’d left East Blue for the Grand Line, and even if he’d scoffed at the notion of keeping a girl waiting ten years, he’d never called him ridiculous for wanting a future like that—or the girl.

Shanks sighed, dragging hand over his face. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. “I know I have no right to ask for your help—”

“You presume I would even be here if that statement held even a modicum of truth," Mihawk cut him off calmly, already turning for the door. “I will see what I can find.”

“Mihawk,” Shanks said, before he could walk out. “Thank you.”

Mihawk inclined his head towards him, and Shanks wondered what he saw; wondered if he looked as tired as he felt, or as hopeful. And once, he might have questioned his old rival's readiness to accept what he was telling him, even the mere notion of a seer’s prediction of the future, but looking at him, Shanks remembered Shyarly’s words, of those who compelled the currents to change. He wondered what vision Mihawk had prompted.

“I cannot promise anything,” Mihawk said, even as it felt like a promise to Shanks, before he turned to stride out of his quarters, the door swinging shut behind him.

Shanks turned back to the map on his desk. His navigator was doing his best charting their voyage, and every island in their path, but there was too much uncharted territory on this sea, and the parts that were claimed weren’t sailed without consequences. Not with the four pirates who ruled each corner; the ones who called themselves _Emperors,_ and who had little patience for upstarts, unless they sought to join their ranks.

Shanks had no intention of joining anyone. And there was only one thing left to do where that was concerned, if he wanted some semblance of control over this sea.

He would have to conquer it.

 

—

 

Her daughter was less than an hour old when Hancock came to see her.

Even exhausted, Makino had sensed her approach, although it was hard to miss, the way her presence commanded attention, seemingly without effort.

The soft soles of her silk slippers announced her arrival, unusually loud across the polished floorboards, before she appeared, her retinue in tow but her sisters missing. She had to duck her head to get through the doorway, but while someone else that tall might have displayed some awkwardness at the fact, Hancock somehow managed to make it seem as though it was the door’s fault, for being too short.

She was out of armour, and clad in formal robes of red silk brocade, twisting serpents and fire-wrought dragons in gold thread weaved into the lavish fabric where it had been wrapped around her, a heavy gold band cinched around her waist. The neck was open, baring her throat and collar, which might have been a vulnerable display, had it not been for the fact that her whole being seemed to challenge anyone to so much as consider it.

Part of her long hair had been pinned up, an elaborate comb holding it in place, a cluster of emerald snakes that wrapped around the back of her head in a half-coronet, while the rest hung, sleek and heavy down her back.

She looked regal, and without apology. And she might have looked out of place, standing before Makino’s futon in the room that had been hastily repurposed for her delivery, part of her own royal palace, maybe, although the situation didn’t exactly seem befitting of an Empress. But standing there, Hancock gave no evidence that anything was amiss with her presence—as though empresses made regular visits to new mothers, even as Makino was fairly certain that wasn’t the case.

It made her smile.

“Hime-sama,” she greeted. And she might have felt intimidated by their differences, in her favourite green robe, lovingly worn but still paling in comparison to Hancock’s silks, some of the embroidered flowers fraying from frequent use. Kikyo had fetched it, when Makino had taken one look at the lavish robe that had been laid out for her, the beautifully dyed and gold-embroidered silk, and had balked at the prospect, still covered in sweat and afterbirth.

Her hair was still damp, and clinging to her neck. They’d changed the sheets, but she hadn’t had the chance to wash up yet, although she was too tired, and too deliriously _happy_  to care about how she appeared.

Similarly, Hancock didn’t seem fazed by her appearance, and merely flicked her eyes to her retinue. “Leave us.”

They didn’t hesitate, only bowed their heads before they slipped away, still as shadows. Makino’s midwife did the same, slipping her a wink as she rose from where she’d been kneeling, bowing to Hancock as she passed before she disappeared out the door, shutting it behind her.

There was a long beat where they just looked at each other, and despite her happy lethargy, Makino felt a twinge of awkwardness, wondering suddenly what Hancock was, in fact, doing there. Other than to tell her to get out of her palace, although if that were the case, Makino thought she would have done so already, and nothing in her presence suggested irritation, or even dissatisfaction. Instead, she felt her reluctance; found it wary rather than nervous, but couldn’t for the life of her guess what might be causing it.

From the slight shift in her eyes, Hancock was aware she was being assessed, but she didn’t respond with anger, the firm press of her mouth suggesting something else, although Makino didn’t have a name for that, either.

“You are well?” Hancock asked then. Her eyes glanced off the baby, wrapped and snuggled in her arms, tiny and pink and perfect.

Makino nodded, attention momentarily stolen by her newborn daughter. She couldn’t stop looking at her.

Her distraction was apparently evident, and this time something in Hancock’s face changed. Not a softening, the unyielding edges of her beautiful features still dagger-sharp, but a hint of understanding smoothing the damning furrow of her brows a fraction.

And where the midwife and the maids had all cooed at the sight of her daughter, reduced to complete incoherency by the unbearably tender softness of her, Hancock didn’t seem inclined to do the same, although Makino couldn’t even picture her _cooing_ at anything, and had to suffocate her smile just at the image.

The wry glint in her eyes told her _that_ hadn’t escaped her, and she cleared her throat as Hancock asked, “Have you named her?”

This time Makino let her smile show, and felt how it changed her face. She’d had a name in mind for some time now, having taken root with her presence, that tiny, wild sprout within her, and had only had her decision confirmed by the sight of her. That little red mane, bright as autumn.

“Rowan,” she said, the first time she spoke it out loud, that she shared it with anyone but her own heart, but she felt the certainty with which it sat on her tongue, as though she’d always known it.

Hancock merely nodded, although Makino wondered if she was even truly listening. Whatever was on her mind, it had her curiously distracted.

“You and I,” she said then, before she raised her eyes from the baby and back to Makino’s. “We share a history.”

Makino frowned, wondering what she could be referring to. They were different in every imaginable way, from their appearance to their personalities, and as for her own history, she knew nothing that would even indicate the smallest common ground.

“When I was twelve years old,” Hancock began, her gaze drifting a bit, before she said, wholly level, “I was captured and sold into slavery.”

Makino’s eyes widened, and all her doubts left her with a startled breath.

There was a second where all Hancock did was watch her, the words having come to settle in the space between them, and Makino didn’t know how to respond—or even how to wrap her head around what she’d just been told.

But Hancock didn’t flinch, only continued to watch her, as though giving her a moment to come to grips with the information she’d revealed. And if it hadn’t been for the slight stirring in her presence, Makino wouldn’t have known it had taken her effort to share it.

Except she did know, and not only from her presence, but from the barest furrow between her elegant brows.

This wasn’t common knowledge, she realised with a start.

She tried to rein in her thoughts, to get some semblance of control over what she was feeling, but it difficult, her own memories surging up with ugly reminders. And even as she tried to picture it, she couldn’t—that authority, somehow restrained, somehow compelled into _yielding._ Or that tall, regal figure, shackled like Makino had been.

She couldn’t imagine it.

She tried to locate her voice, but didn’t know where to even begin asking, or what—didn’t even know if Hancock would welcome questions. But she must have told her for a reason, Makino thought, looking up at her now, standing before the futon in all her beautiful regalia, in her royal palace on this hidden island that was the closest thing to a sanctuary Makino could imagine, as though she’d never in her life been anywhere else, or anything other than Empress.

Except there was no untruth in her presence, and she understood suddenly the fiercely guarded heart that kept everyone at arm’s length. The reason had never made more sense.

And she felt the understanding as it passed between them, and knew then why Hancock had looked at her that way, standing on the Sabaody docks with nowhere else to go, no memories and no home to her name.

“How did you escape?” Makino asked, her voice rough when she finally found it. And anyone else might have considered the question impertinent, given who she was asking, but she’d accepted the invitation for what it was. The reason behind Hancock’s visit.

“There was a rebellion, three years ago,” Hancock said. Her expression didn’t change, her presence wholly calm as she added, “I suppose you could say I was lucky. Or perhaps it was something else. If luck had anything to do with that aspect of my life, it was a dark sort. One I did not ask for.”

Makino watched her; heard the level weight of her voice, speaking the words, but wasn’t fooled into thinking she was unaffected. And— _three years_ , she thought suddenly, startled. And she knew she hadn’t been Empress long, but to think she hadn’t been free longer than that, and that she’d spent the formative years of her adolescence enslaved…

“Four years,” Makino said softly, looking up at her.

Hancock nodded, but said nothing else. But then nothing more needed to be said on that matter, between two who had survived the same hell, although Makino had been lucky to escape before she was sold.

 _Lucky_ , she thought, and knew suddenly what Hancock meant. It didn’t feel like luck, even if her situation could have been so much worse, if she had been sold at that auction; if Rayleigh hadn’t stopped it when he had, or if Kikyo hadn’t stepped in when she did, offering her a way off Sabaody. What did luck have to do with any of it?

But if it wasn’t luck, she didn’t know what to call it—couldn’t bear to call it _fate_ , because believing that meant believing she’d been fated to be enslaved in the first place, and she felt her own opposition to that, how fiercely it seized her, just thinking it.

“They didn’t get the chance to brand you,” Hancock said then, and Makino blinked, before her brows dipped with confusion.

“Brand me?”

Hancock’s face remained stoically blank, even as she said, “The Celestial Dragons brand their slaves, so that even in freedom, they can never escape.”

She turned around, Makino watched as she loosened the heavy belt around her waist, allowing her robes to slide down her shoulders, to bare her back, before she reached a hand up to pull the heavy curtain of her hair out of the way.

Her breath caught.

The mark looked back at her, angry and red where it had been seared into her skin, as though with a branding iron.

“The Hoof of the Flying Dragon,” Hancock recited, her voice heavy with derision, and Makino started, before Hancock allowed her hair to fall back, covering the brand as she said, “This is the reminder I carry.”

She made to refasten her robes, and with an efficiency that didn’t stutter. And even knowing what she’d just told her, even having _seen_ the brand on her back, Makino still found it hard to believe that such a person could have endured the same she had. The auction house, the shackles and the indignity of it all. This woman, whose whole being embodied the very meaning of _dignity_.

When she was done, she turned back to look at her. “My sisters are among the few who know—including you, now. The rest of my tribe do not. I would like to keep it that way.”

Makino looked up at her, unable to even nod her agreement, or to say she understood. She didn’t know what to _say_ , or how to even respond to such a blatant demonstration of trust; didn’t know what she’d even done to earn the privilege, to be confided in in such a way. She’d done nothing to earn that honour. She’d won no fights in the battle ring, and had done nothing to make herself noticed, the few weeks she’d lived among them. She wiped tables at the tavern, for goodness sake!

But even thinking it, there was a part of her that thought she might know, remembering those rare evenings, no conversation offered, only a glass, and the implicit understanding between two quiet hearts of vastly different storms.

Hancock only regarded her coolly, not so much as a flicker of regret in her presence, or her expression.

“I am glad,” she said then, quietly, “that you did not have to endure what I did. However, that does not diminish your own suffering. I am not here to compare our miseries.” She lifted her chin. “I am here to make you an offer,” she said, “to become one of my warriors.”

Makino’s eyes widened.

“Kikyo tells me you have a knack for haki,” Hancock continued. “And from what I’ve observed, it’s not a small one. I should like to see you hone it.”

Rowan made a little noise; the softest sound she’d ever heard. It distracted Makino from the offer that had been put in front of her, and she remembered suddenly where she was, and what she’d just done—that in the span of a few hours she’d become a _mother,_ however hard it still was to believe; that the warm little presence she’d carried within her so long was now slumbering in her arms.

When she glanced up, it was to find Hancock watching the baby.

“When I first brought you here, you told me you sought freedom for your daughter,” she said. She still hadn’t lifted her eyes from the sleeping girl. “But in this world, freedom is won, not given. Our tribe knows this.”

She looked at Makino then, a fierce glint in her eyes. “So I am asking if you would learn the ways of our tribe, so that you may fight for that freedom, to win it for yourself, and your daughter. You are not lacking in strength, but in this world, a woman is always at a disadvantage if she cannot protect herself and that which is hers. Your body. Your autonomy.” She pressed her lips together, her eyes shifting to somewhere below her chin, and it took Makino a moment to realise she was looking at the anchor, as Hancock said, “Your heart.”

She raised her eyes then, and their gazes met. And this time when she looked at her, Makino saw the visual evidence of what she’d always felt in her presence; the one that compelled others to yield simply by existing, that claimed space wherever she walked, or deference from those who followed her. It wasn’t out of arrogance, or self-importance, as she’d once thought. It was for protection.

And if her freedom was a shield, her beauty was a weapon, forever raised and ready to strike. They had given her that weapon, Makino thought—the people who’d taken her; who’d sold and branded her for it.

And Makino remembered well what it had felt like, standing before the leering crowd, the auctioneer touching her, pointing out her attributes. Her selling points.

She looked at the baby sleeping at her breast, that little shape that could fit into the circle of her arms. She was so small, and so fragile. It was hard to imagine anything ever happening to something so pure and innocent. That the world would allow it—that it could _ever._

Hancock had been _twelve years old._

Her breath rushed out, as the full implication of those words reached her, and Makino tightened her arms instinctively around her daughter. But Hancock didn’t even flinch, or drop her eyes; just watched her back calmly, awaiting her answer.

Makino thought of the two warriors fighting in the battle ring, that incredible skill, and the almost breathless ease with which they demonstrated it. The _power_ that sang through every single presence on the island; the kind that didn’t easily let itself be subdued. The fighters that lived here, the women who’d fought for their place in the world and who were ready to defend it with their lives; who _could_ , and who’d put up one hell of a fight doing it.

She’d be able to protect her daughter, if she ever needed to. She’d have the physical strength her body lacked; the one she felt in her heart. She’d be able to do _something_ , if only to fight back against those who would hurt her.

And maybe it wouldn’t protect her against everything; the whole, wide world beyond the shores of Amazon Lily, and the Calm Belt that kept it hidden. But it was a start. It was something she could _do_ , something she could become, when she still had no idea what she’d been, once.

 _Kuja_.

Makino looked up at Hancock, not a slave but an Empress, and leaving no doubt about that fact, the whole of her seeming to recklessly defy the notion, even as Makino saw in the depths of her eyes that she had by no means forgotten. And she knew she never would, either, for as long as she lived—not the slave ship, or the auction house.

She never wanted her daughter to have to go through the same.

And it didn’t require thinking, not even a flicker of doubt in her heart as she held her newborn daughter close, feeling her little heartbeats and every ounce of that fierce, reckless love spurred by it, and decided.

“I want to learn.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't wait to write that cheeky little girl turning the sea on its head.


	6. little lion cub

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the time-honoured (ha!) tradition of the time-skip, we're jumping ahead 10 years! Although this probably doesn't come as a surprise, as I've already mentioned to some of you that the majority of this story takes place after Luffy sets out to sea.
> 
> Speaking of which...

“You all set?” Dadan asked, side-eying the little dinghy where it bobbed in the water, as though expecting it to sink any second.

Grinning down at the boat, Luffy nodded. “I’m ready.” He didn’t see what was wrong with it—he’d already checked it for holes, and hadn’t found any. It was everything he needed.

He’d carved a message into the hull, for posterity (Makino had taught him what that meant, and why it was important):  _This was the Pirate King’s first boat. Signed, yours truly_ (Makino had taught him that, too), _Monkey D. Luffy_.

Dadan didn’t look convinced, but only offered the boat another doubtful glance, before she turned to look at him.

She looked old, Luffy thought, but didn’t point it out, already expecting what kind of reaction he’d get if he did. She didn’t like being reminded, although he didn’t know why. Everyone got older; some people were just more obvious about it.

Looking at the boat again, he wondered how Ace was doing. He hadn’t heard anything since he’d set out to sea three years ago, but he wasn’t worried. His brother could take care of himself, and he’d promised to wait for him on the Grand Line; that they’d meet up, once they were both pirates. That they’d fulfil their promise together.

Dadan sighed then, lifting her eyes to the village. The sun was really bright; it brought out all the silver in her hair, even though she wasn't nearly as grey as his grandfather. “She woulda’ been here to see you off,” she said. “Makino.”

Luffy felt his smile faltering, but didn’t let it drop. “Yeah,” he said, softly. She’d told him she would, once—that she would pack him lunch, and wave him off, like they did in the books. That she’d watch the horizon until she couldn’t see him anymore, just to be safe.

He’d tried to pack his own lunch, but it hadn’t really been successful. But then no one could have made a better lunch than she would have. She’d always remembered how he liked his sandwiches, and had always made him extra, even when he didn’t ask.

When he found a chef, he’d have to be _that_ good, Luffy thought. At the very least, if not better. He wouldn’t settle for anything less.

And thinking about her had used to make him sad, but ever since he’d gotten old enough to leave, it only made him more confident, even if no one else felt the same. No one in Fuschia believed she was still alive, not even his grandfather, but Luffy didn’t care what they thought.

He wondered if Shanks was still looking for her. He thought he had to be; that he wouldn’t have given up.

“I’ll become the Pirate King,” Luffy said, to the sea. The East Blue, which was the only sea he’d ever known. But it didn’t matter if he hadn’t been anywhere else yet. He get a crew, and a ship, and he’d sail the whole world. He’d look everywhere, even the islands they said didn’t exist. Like Makino, and the baby-who-wasn’t-a-baby-anymore, just because no one had found them yet didn’t mean they weren’t out there somewhere.

“And I’ll find them,” he said, to Dadan this time, because he felt this was more important. Turning towards her, he let her see how much he believed he would, because he knew what it was like, to be left behind to wait. Gramps had told him the same so many times, before he’d stopped making that promise, even if Luffy didn’t think he’d stopped looking for her. But Ace had never stopped believing, and so Luffy wouldn’t, either. Not for Makino, or for Dadan.

She surprised him by pulling him into a crushing hug, but his protesting _wheeze_ was ignored, before she drew back, holding him at arm’s length, as though to get a good look at him.

“You tell your brother when you see him,” she said then, her voice rough with warning, and Luffy was grinning already before she added, “that it wouldn't kill him to call home once in a while.”

Still grinning, “I’ll tell him,” Luffy said.

Dadan nodded. “Well, then,” she said. “You better get going before your grandpa catches wind of this, or you’ll have a small platoon from Headquarters ready to intercept you.” She eyed the boat again. “And unless that skiff’s built from magic wood, you won’t get far.”

Luffy just shrugged, watching the water, and the line of the horizon in the distance. He felt the prickling along his skin, the one that had always made it hard to sit still, but for once in his life, he felt completely calm. “I’ll figure it out.”

Dadan snorted, but she was smiling, Luffy saw, as her eyes glanced off the straw hat on his head. “Yeah,” she sighed, before she murmured, “You would, wouldn’t you?”

Grinning, he touched the hat, no longer too big but instead a perfect fit, as though it had been made for him. He brushed his fingertips along the red ribbon, his smile softening as he grazed the new one that he’d had sewn into the brim; the one Suze-baba had helped him with, made from one of Makino’s kerchiefs. The yellow one that he’d liked best. But he didn’t think Shanks would mind, when he gave it back.

And he’d find Shanks, too. He’d return his treasure—all three of them. _That_ was his promise; the one he’d waited ten years to fulfil. But he would.

He’d bet his life on it.

 

—

 

She was waiting.

The sun filled the battle ring like liquid light in a bowl, poured straight from the open mouth of the sky. There was no hiding from that great eye, which illuminated every detail, every colour and flaw. It brightened the reds of the surrounding balusters, and lengthened her shadow across the stones, gathering in cracks and fissures where it stretched out at her feet, a beast much bigger than she was.

Makino felt her own pulse, the steady, unwavering pace under her skin, and her breath, wholly unhurried. She felt the bow across her back, and her quiver of arrows, like extensions of herself; felt her arms and her legs, and how she’d distributed her own weight, her posture free of tension but ever-ready. And beyond herself, the hundred presences in the rows circling the battle ring, a wildflower field under the trail of her fingertips, brushing over each and every one, naming them all. An old ritual, to help centre her focus.

“So,” said a voice, stirring the perfect calm of her concentration, and Makino opened her eyes to find Kikyo stepping up to the inner ring, her grin a bright flash of teeth in the sunlight. “Back for a rematch at last.”

Makino smiled, turning fully to face her, and saw where Kikyo’s gaze shifted, but then she’d made a point of displaying it.

The wound she’d carried out of their last match had long since healed, but the scar remained, a wicked, two-inch wide arc across her left shoulder, like the white crest of a perfect wave. The sun brought it out, and the freckles on her skin, darker than they’d been once, and kinder markings than the small nicks that kissed her arms, from many matches lost and won.

“I won’t lose this time,” Makino said, smiling, confident now where she hadn’t been before, even as she felt how her heart skipped with familiar, nervous anticipation. Sweat pearled low on her brow where she’d braided back her hair, the heavy weight of the coiled bun at her nape not yielding a single loose strand to tempt her focus into slipping, the tight wrap of the bandanna around her head keeping it securely in place. She couldn’t afford distractions. Not today.

Kikyo only grinned, seeming pleased by her determination, but she said nothing as they both turned to watch the figure stepping out onto the upper level of the pagoda.

The answering roar of the crowd muted every other sound in the battle ring, the weight of sound slamming down, near-deafening in its sheer intensity. Makino allowed it to wash over her, but didn’t let it take her, gaze fixed intently on Hancock as she took a seat.

She felt their audience physically, their intrigue and their excitement, and their anticipation for what was coming, although it had been years since it had stopped reminding her of a different audience, and a different stage. Her first fight in the battle ring, she’d lasted two minutes before she’d had to bend over to violently empty her stomach, unable to endure the attention; the full, relentless weight of it, and the sun like the auction house lights, baring her naked.

Her second match she’d made it a full five. Then seven, and her first victory had been secured without so much as a stutter in her step, even with every gaze trained on her and their cheers threatening to knock her legs out from underneath her.

But this wasn’t a stage, even if it could be mistaken for one, at first glance. They weren’t paraded for the crowd’s enjoyment here. _They_ were in control, always. They decided to demonstrate their strength, their skills and their prowess, but they controlled the crowd, not the other way around. There were no bids made. No one owned anything here but the ring, and the ring could only be won, not bought.

“Ready?” Kikyo asked, as they turned back to face each other. She hadn’t reached for her weapons, as dictated by the rules of the ring, where they awaited their Empress’ signal, but Makino catalogued them all, every hidden blade and her number of arrows; organised them neatly in her mind, by number and the likely order she’d use them.

The long dagger, first. She saw it in her mind’s eye, sharper than her real sight; that uncanny prediction that could see into the future, if only for a few seconds.

But a few seconds was all she needed, to tip the battle in her own favour. Her strength wasn’t brute force, but knowing her opponent, picking out their tells and their weaknesses, to determine their actions from the barest twitch of their muscles to the quickening of their breath. To know when they would act, and how.

Her strength was split-second decisions, and the mind to make them without hesitating.

Then Hancock nodded, and Makino had nocked and loosed her first arrow between her own heartbeats.

It shot past her opponent, a near miss before it embedded itself into the wall behind her, the force behind it sending a shower of rocks raining into the chasm below.

“Armament right off the bat,” Kikyo laughed, although she sounded genuinely startled. “You’re going on the offensive this time!”

She’d barely finished speaking when she shot forward without warning, but Makino had already seen it, and countered the dagger with her own, the short blade drawn from its sheath before she’d even put away her bow, the exchange so seamless it barely required thought, and she saw how Kikyo’s eyes widened, right before their blades met.

The sound pierced the air, a keening song of steel where it reverberated through her arm, into her bones, and when they broke apart she heard Kikyo’s laughter echoing it, not as sharp but just as loud.

Makino let the tide of the fight pull her, feeling how it tugged and pushed, another arrow loosed, this time catching Kikyo’s side, the impact enough to make her stagger back two steps, before she caught herself with a vicious oath, her knee taking the brunt of her weight. But she was back on her feet a second later, parrying her next assault, and Makino felt the strength behind the blows, driving her back across the platform.

The tip of Kikyo’s dagger nicked her leg, before the flat end of it connected with her ribcage, and Makino felt her breath leaving her with a gasp, knocked loose of her chest.

Another blow followed in quick succession, too fast for even her to keep up, a closed fist straight to the centre of her chest knocking her back, but she ducked to avoid the one aimed for her nose, closing her fingers around Kikyo’s wrist as she twisted it sharply, and used her whole weight to flip them both, slamming her into the stones.

She’d leaped back before Kikyo could jump to her feet, blocking her next assault, a shorter dagger this time to accompany the other, and the _force_ she put behind the blows barely allowed Makino to react as she twisted her own sword, meeting each strike.

“What will I do next?” Kikyo laughed, the words escaping with the rush of her breath. Her eyes were lit, the wide grin beneath even brighter.

“You tell me,” Makino breathed, as she parried another strike, and demonstrated her words by knocking the dagger out of her grip before Kikyo could chuck it at her, having foreseen the attack.

She heard the string of curses that left her, coloured with laughter. “Damn that observation,” Kikyo said, as she met Makino’s blade with her remaining dagger. “Soon you’ll be predicting what I’ll have for breakfast tomorrow.”

Their blades clashed again, before Makino sprung back, smiling. “Oats, as you always do,” she said, before meeting her next blow, and felt how the impact jarred her whole body, racing up her arm with enough force to make her clench her jaw.

Kikyo laughed, breathless. “Just for that, I’m eating something else.”

Makino grinned, and didn't know where the impulse came from or why it felt so familiar, but with her next strike, quipped—"Don't be lewd."

Kikyo threw her head back at that, her laugh ripping from her this time, before she lunged forward, her whole weight behind the charge. And she was bigger, was raw, _physical_ strength that Makino couldn’t hope to match, but she’d long since learned to use her small size and speed to her advantage.

Sweat poured down her back, down her temples and between her breasts. It gathered in the thick folds of her hair under her bandanna, but it hadn’t come loose, and she didn’t pause to wipe her brow as she sprung forward, ducking under Kikyo’s raised arm, before twisting her blade around to slam it, pommel-out straight into her stomach.

Kikyo staggered back, a shout shoved past her teeth, but Makino was upon her before she had the chance to gather herself, knocking the dagger out of her grip before delivering a short, brutal kick straight to her chest, sending her crashing through the topmost baluster, and the one below, before coming to a stop at the bottom platform.

Makino had nocked another arrow before Kikyo could lift to her feet, and this time she was too slow to dodge it, the hardened tip embedding itself into her shoulder, just at the soft spot her breastplate didn’t cover, and Makino watched as she cried out, the force of her armament shoving her back and off the platform.

Having already predicted the outcome, Makino had moved before she’d even loosed the arrow, fingers clamped around Kikyo’s wrist while she dug her heels into the stone, keeping her from falling into the pit.

The roar of the crowd bore down on them, drowning out whatever decision Hancock might have reached, although they both knew the winner had been decided the second Kikyo had gone over the bottom platform.

Breathing heavily, Kikyo looked up at her, lilac eyes still alight from the battle, before a grin split her face, looking somewhere between achingly fond and long-suffering, but Makino only grinned back, and helped her climb up onto the platform.

“Mercy for your opponent,” Kikyo breathed as she bent forward, resting her hands on her knees, her long ponytail falling forward. She sounded genuinely out of breath, which Makino considered a bigger victory than the one she’d just secured.

She caught her grin as Kikyo flicked her eyes up. “Hime-sama won’t like that.”

Makino returned it, but stole a glance up at the pagoda overlooking the battle ring. Her own breath was hard to catch, but the exertion was a good one, was exhilarating in a way normal training could never hope to be. An arena duel _was_ vastly different from a sparring match. “I think she’ll live.”

Following her gaze, Kikyo only shook her head. “Only you could get away with that kind of reckless insubordination,” she said, but didn’t sound the least bit displeased by the fact. “One might wonder what you have on her, that she should be so ready to dismiss it.”

Makino hummed. “Maybe it’s a dark, terrible secret,” she mused, before meeting Kikyo’s gaze. “Or maybe she just likes me.”

Kikyo only smiled, as she straightened. “Even if it should be the first, I think the second would still remain true. But then you have that way about you.”

Around them, the crowd was still cheering, seeming to have found nothing amiss with the conclusion to their match, but then Makino had a reputation, and doubted there were anyone who were particularly surprised.

And maybe she was pushing her luck, but then she’d been pushing it for ten years, and if Hancock hadn’t exiled her for it yet, it wasn’t likely she would any time soon.

Kikyo touched her fingers to the bleeding wound in her side, where Makino’s arrow had taken a chunk of flesh with it. For the moment, she seemed to be ignoring the shaft protruding from her shoulder. “I vividly remember a time when you were too timid to aim properly,” she said, sounding half-marvelling. She flicked her eyes up, her look suddenly knowing, and brightly amused. “Not so timid now.”

“I only grazed you,” Makino said.

“Exactly. On _purpose_.” At her attempted look of demure innocence, Kikyo shook her head, smiling. “Your aim may be true, but you couldn’t strike a blind opponent with a convincing lie.” She reached up to touch the arrow embedded in her shoulder. “ _Fuck_ ,” she breathed, with a helpless laugh. “You didn’t give me a single opening, those last few strikes.”

This time she wasn’t feigning being demure. “Was I supposed to?” Makino asked.

Kikyo only grinned, and with a controlled breath, _yanked_ loose the arrow from her shoulder, blood spattering the stones at their feet, before she handed it back to Makino. “For the sake of my wounded ego, perhaps,” she said wryly, although her grin hadn't budged.

She glanced up at the pagoda, and Makino followed her gaze to Hancock, who hadn’t moved from her seat. “No one’s been turned to stone yet,” Kikyo mused. “Although that’s hardly assuring. Perhaps she has something worse in mind for us.”

Makino was almost tempted to agree, feeling the spark of familiar outrage in her presence, like a sea churning, but then Hancock rose to her feet and promptly turned on her heel, her retinue falling in behind her.

For a moment, they just stood there, Makino still catching her breath, the eddies of the cheering crowd swirling at the edges of her hearing and her heart beating like a battle-drum in her chest.

“Well,” Kikyo said, turning her head to look at her. “Since we’ve established that we’ll both live another hour, how about a drink to celebrate? Or do you have a late shift tonight? Aster could be persuaded to let you off early, given your victory. No one likes to toast a successful match as much as that one, although she’ll be disappointed you didn’t come back with a new scar.”

“A tempting offer,” Makino said, scanning the crowd, although her senses had already told her the answer her eyes were searching for. “But maybe later.”

She grinned, throwing out a part of herself further, until she found what she was looking for—that bright little presence that was always at her fingertips.

“There’s someone I need to check up on first.”

 

—

 

She found her daughter as expected—up to no good, although it was a gentle mischief that delighted in nothing more sinister than playing hooky, of which the girl was an undisputed master, courtesy of an always-wandering mind, and a restless heart.

“Mama!”

She’d just rounded the corner when a tiny shape dropped down in front of her, having slid off the roof to land on her feet, graceful as a kitten. The sinking sun lit her hair aflame, and when she lifted her eyes to Makino, the grin she flashed outshone it. “Did I surprise you?”

Sinking to a crouch to put them at eye level, Makino’s laugh was softly adoring as she reached out to tuck some of her hair behind her ear, only for it to fall back, stubbornly resisting the attempt. “Always.”

Rowan beamed, and Makino couldn’t help her own, but then looking at that smile was usually all it took. She’d never known anyone who smiled like her daughter; with her whole body.

“Did you win?” she asked then, and Makino saw how her gaze went to her leg, and the cut she’d cleaned and wrapped.

Her eyes rounded, tellingly enthralled at the prospect of a daring and bloody recount, but before the questions could rush off her tongue, “I did,” Makino said, smiling. “But your aunt gave as good as she got.”

Her daughter's grin brightened, so much that it was almost hard to look at. “I want to see it next time!”

Makino hummed, reaching up to poke her nose gently, and smiled when it wrinkled under her fingertip, distorting the constellation of freckles there. “You know the rules—you can watch when you’re old enough to participate.” Then with a raised brow, “But don’t think I didn’t hear that you tried to sneak in,” she said. “Again.”

Rowan only grinned, cheerfully undaunted by the accusation, and all charges accepted. “I almost got inside this time! I outran _nearly_ all the guards. It was just luck that they caught me. And—" She cut off, her gaze dropping below her chin, and, “What?” she asked, as though in answer. “I’m not lying!”

The little snake coiled around her neck only peered back at her, before her daughter told it, “Oh yeah? Well, if you don’t exaggerate a little, then what’s the point of saying anything at all? And they wouldn’t have caught me if you hadn’t been distracting me in the first place.” A beat, and then with a gasp, “You were too! It’s hard to concentrate when you’re always talking in my ear!”

Makino watched the one-sided interaction, expression carefully bemused. Ever since she'd been little, her daughter had been quick to assign names and voices to every creature that crossed her path, talking to them as she would any human; answering them, as though they were talking to _her_.

Makino had never questioned it too closely. She felt things strongly, too—feelings, and presences. Perhaps this was simply her daughter’s way of demonstrating a similar affinity: with a lively imagination.

Sticking her tongue out at the little snake, Rowan grinned up at her, and Makino felt how her expression softened, marvelling suddenly at how much she’d grown, since that very first day when she’d dozed in her arms, too pink and too wonderfully wrinkled to imagine what the years would make of her; how they would shape her, body and personality and temper.

And even changing, Makino knew that face like her own—the pert nose, and the wide, lovely mouth, which was always smiling. Those big brown eyes held far too much mischief to even pretend at innocence, as terrible a liar as Makino had ever been called, but then her near-permanent smile made no secret of that fact, demonstrating it proudly.

And the eyes were hers, like the delicate shape of her face, but that mouth and that smile were someone else’s. Like her hair, still too red to believe, they had come from another, although where Makino had once hoped the years might provide her with an answer, she was no more wiser than she’d been while her daughter was still in the womb.

She still couldn’t remember—not where she’d come from, or who she’d been before she’d woken up on that slave ship.

And she’d had ten years of new memories to fill the void in her mind, from the new life she’d made for herself, but she still wondered about those forgotten years, and the person she’d been. And every year her daughter grew older, that she grew more into herself as a person, with her loud laughter and her quick, clever mind, and all her small joys, her favourite meals and songs and stories, so many _details_ accumulated in ten years, Makino was left out of breath, wondering how much she must have forgotten of herself, having forgotten _twenty_.

A whole life. A whole, fully-fledged _person_ , with all the little things that had made her unique. She still remembered none of it, not even the people who might have loved her for those things, the way she loved every aspect of her daughter; every little freckle and quirk.

“Mama?”

Blinking, Makino realised she’d let her thoughts drift, and looked up into her daughter’s face from where she still sat, her weight balanced on the balls of her feet.

She saw the question in her eyes, and across her whole face; that lovely thing that had come from two separate parts, even as the latter half remained a shadow she couldn’t name. Who’d given her that mouth, and that high, beautiful brow?

Makino shook her head, hoping her smile kept her face from revealing all her thoughts. “Nothing, my heart. I’m just surprised by how big you’re getting.” Reaching up, she pushed some of her hair out of her brow, feeling how it slipped through her fingers, warmed by the sun. “And you’re not the only thing that’s growing,” she mused, giving it a teasing tug, which prompted another smile. “This is due for a cut soon.”

“Can I cut it short?” Rowan asked, familiar impatience sparking in her presence; a bright flicker of emotion. And like her, her daughter had always been terribly easy to read, expression and presence both. “It’s taking _forever_ to grow it out.”

Makino smiled, delighted by the exaggerated pout where it dragged her mouth down at the corners. “If you want. But if you want me to braid it like I do with mine, it’s going to have to be longer.” She gave it another tug for emphasis. It reached just beneath her chin, and was still a little too short for her to braid.

Rowan’s lips pursed, her frown considering, and Makino saw her eyes go to her own hair, the heavy coil of her braid still intact, although she’d removed the bandanna, and a few strands were coming loose at her temples.

She could see the passage of her thoughts behind her eyes, accompanied by a familiar gleam. “I have to weigh the desired reward against the cost of achieving it,” Rowan said then, as though reciting the words, before she nodded. “Fine. I’ll wait.”

Makino laughed, startled. “Has your aunt Kikyo been teaching you battle strategy again?”

“No,” Rowan chirped. “Hime-sama taught me that.”

Makino blinked, and for a second, didn’t even know how to respond, before she shook her head, smiling. “She did?”

“Mm. She also said she’d feed me to the sea kings if I didn’t stop pestering her, but they wouldn’t eat me, anyway,” Rowan said, brightly. “I already asked them.”

Makino only nodded, and chose to let that slide, even as she couldn’t help but wonder if she should be worried her daughter thought she could communicate with sea kings. “It’s a good lesson, either way,” she said. Then, her brows dipping, “Speaking of lessons—aren’t you supposed to be having them?”

Rowan opened her mouth, a response no doubt already devised and ready, when a voice pierced the air—

“ _Rowan_!”

—and she winced, glancing over her shoulder, before taking a step closer to Makino, who looked up to find her encumbered teacher at the mouth of the street.

Short and stocky, Master Sorrel still cut an impressive figure, green-eyed and sandy-haired, and her body a sturdy coil of muscle; the kind that looked like it could withstand a tidal wave, if she only dug her heels in.

She looked like she’d been running, her exertion showing, which was something of a feat—Makino had once seen her wrestle a wild boar to the ground. And she wasn’t much taller than she was, but her presence had always seemed twice as big, and Makino was always surprised when she came close and she didn’t have to physically crane her neck to look at her, as with so many of her fellow Kuja.

Sorrel strode up to them as Makino lifted back to her feet, frowning down her nose at the girl who’d made a strategic escape behind her mother’s legs. “I swear, that girl! I close my eyes for two seconds.”

Poking her head out from behind her, “Maybe you should make it just one second next time,” Rowan quipped, and Makino had to press her lips together to kill her startled smile.

She got an unamused look for her failed efforts, although the quirk of Sorrel’s mouth was wry—and seeming wholly in spite of herself. “The comebacks are quicker than she is,” she snorted, looking at the girl, who only blinked her eyes innocently. “If you could only channel the same amount of effort into your training as you do getting out of it, it wouldn’t be many years until you’d be the best on the island.”

Rowan only grinned. “But then I’d make your job obsolete,” she chirped. “I’m pacing myself. For your sake, Master Sorrel.”

Sorrel muttered, “ _Pacing herself_ , she says.”

Makino wasn’t even trying to hold back her smile now. “I’m sorry, Sorrel,” she said, with a firm look at her daughter. Or an attempted one, anyway. It was hard, confronted with that wide, entirely too compelling smile. “I’ll have a talk with her.”

Sorrel only made a noise, which seemed to convey just how much good she thought that would do, but her irritation seemed short-lived. Then again, her daughter had that effect.

Makino watched as Rowan darted towards the nearest building, laughing as Sorrel ruffled her hair in passing, before she made to scale the wall, as quickly as she’d slipped down earlier, barely a breath before she’d swung herself up onto the slanted tiles of the pent roof. But then she’d grown up climbing trees, blistering her fingers and scuffing her knees. Watching her now, Makino remembered her vividly, six years old and standing on the roof of their house, pretending it was a crow’s nest, and the forest no forest at all but a vast sea.

“Heard you won this morning’s match,” Sorrel said then, and when Makino looked at her, found that the last dregs of her irritation had trickled out, leaving a smile. “I’m impressed. Kikyo’s no pushover.”

“Oh, I know,” Makino said, touching the scar on her shoulder and remembering the blow that had left it. It had nearly taken off her arm.

“Figured it was about time, though,” Sorrel continued. “You’ve beaten nearly every other contender who’s challenged you.” She grinned, and patted her bicep, the thick coil of muscle and veins as she flexed it. “You’ve got to let me take you on next. You’re little, and quick, but I think I could still keep up. I already know your girl’s tricks, and that apple didn’t fall far from the tree.” She shook her head, her eyes going to the girl in question. “Wee thing,” she sighed, but with far too much fondness to pretend at annoyance. “She’s too young to challenge anyone yet, but I wouldn’t put it past her to try. She’d proposition Hime-sama herself, and probably live to tell the tale.”

Makino sighed a laugh. “I’m fully inclined to believe you,” she said, watching where her daughter sat perched on the roof, waving to passers-by. She was talking animatedly, her mouth working and her gaze trained on the snake around her neck. Her name was Ceto, or so Makino had been informed.

“How is her training coming along?” Makino asked, turning back to Sorrel. “Really.”

She got a look for that. “I wasn’t lying,” Sorrel said. “If she put enough effort in, she’d soon surpass her peers, not to mention her superiors. She’s the best I’ve ever trained. Her grasp of haki alone is bordering on ridiculous.” Her mouth pursed in a smile, and her next look was suddenly knowing. “Must have it from her mother. Your observation has no equal on this island.”

Makino returned the smile, even as she couldn’t help but wonder, watching her daughter as she twisted around, only to hang upside-down from the roof’s edge, Ceto curled around her neck as though for dear life. It was easy to assume that, like some of her more obvious traits, she’d gotten her knack for haki from her. Or perhaps the truth was something rather different.

_Did your father have it?_

“What about her—?” She looked at Sorrel, the question left unfinished, but Makino knew she’d understood from the way her brows furrowed.

“Nothing yet,” she said, observing the girl. “Not since her first time showing it. Of course, that’s to be expected. It’s rare for conqueror’s haki to manifest at all, let alone so early.”

Makino nodded, worrying the inside of her cheek between her teeth. She’d expected that answer, although she didn’t know if she'd been hoping for something else.

It had happened by accident, the first time. She’d been four years old, and a moment of inattention on Makino’s part had seen her wandering off into the forest. She still remembered that terrified little scream; the unforgiving reminder that even protected from the world outside, their island thrived with dangers within.

She hadn’t paused to think—had moved so fast she’d barely registered her own reaction, seeking out her presence with a breath, and had found her facing down a beast, one of the many that frequented the island proper. But her reflexes hadn’t been what they were now, and Makino had barely had time to reach for her bow when her daughter’s scream had reached a terrified pitch, and something in her had _snapped._

The surprise had been the worst. Makino hadn’t been prepared for it, and hadn’t had the chance to throw up her guard. She’d gone down like a tree.

She’d woken a few minutes later, blinking into the canopy, completely disoriented and with her daughter babbling happily beside her, the beast as docile as a lamb.

_I wanna take it home, mama!_

They’d been watching out for it ever since, but she hadn’t shown any more signs of having it, even with active encouragement. But Makino knew what she’d felt, remembering Rayleigh—knew that nothing less could compel a beast to act that way, like a trained house pet.

“In our whole tribe, Hime-sama is the only other who has it,” Sorrel said then. Makino saw that she was still looking at Rowan, who’d swung herself back onto the roof. “They say it’s the mark of greatness.” She slipped Makino a sidelong glance. “If only she would actually aspire to it. Maybe we’d have our next Empress, if she could be compelled to sit on any throne that’s bolted to the floor. She’s not likely to be tied down, that girl of yours. If it’s a throne she wants, I imagine it’ll be the one the Pirate King left empty.”

Makino didn’t answer, but felt how her chest constricted at the mention; the truth she’d known for some time now, but that it hurt to acknowledge.

“Either way, I’ve been thinking about her training,” Sorrel said, before adding, wryly, “Unfortunately, we’re a bit short on teachers with conqueror’s haki. I’d suggest Hime-sama, but she might have me executed for the audacity alone.”

Makino smiled. “I’ll ask her, just in case. Maybe she wouldn’t be entirely opposed to the idea.” She looked at Rowan, and remembered her words; that self-assured recitation:  _I have to weigh the desired reward against the cost of achieving it._ “And she can compel the greatest minds to bend, that girl,” Makino murmured.

“Hm,” Sorrel agreed. “She’d find a worthy adversary, if nothing else.”

Makino was about to answer when she paused, and looked up to find the source of the disturbance; the sudden presence that had manifested, with intent.

It was a runner from the palace, appearing on quick feet. She came to a stop beside them, and did a short bow, her dark hair slipping over her shoulder. She reminded Makino of a willow branch, long-legged and graceful. Or perhaps like the flower she’d been named after. “Commander,” she said.

“At ease, Calla,” Makino laughed. “I’m off duty right now.”

A flash of a smile met her as she straightened. She towered a good head above them both. “A message from Hime-sama,” she said, the words directed to Makino. “She’s received summons from the Fleet Admiral. You’ll be leaving for Marineford today. We’ve already begun preparing the ship for departure.”

Makino frowned. “Did she say what the summons were about?”

Calla shook her head. “They weren’t specific.”

It wasn’t exactly a surprise; the navy rarely disclosed more information than absolutely necessary. It was usually restricted to a date, a time, and a conference room number. “Thank you, Calla,” Makino said. “Let Hime-sama know I’ll be ready.”

Calla bowed her head, then once more to Sorrel, before she vanished, as quickly as she’d appeared.

Sorrel sighed. “Just when I’d forgotten we had to do business with that ilk.”

Makino silently agreed, and was about to say something when the sound of little feet hitting the gravel alerted them to Rowan’s reappearance. “You’re leaving?”

Turning to look at her, Makino nodded. “Hime-sama has been summoned to Marineford.”

Her eyes went wide, the prospect of the navy headquarters infinitely tantalising to that curious little heart, and Makino already knew what was coming before her daughter blurted, “Can I come with you?”

Makino felt as her look softened, as she reached out to thread her fingers through her hair. “Anchor of my heart,” she said, tenderly. “You already know the answer to that.”

The pout she got had no equal on any sea, Makino was certain. But then with a toothy grin, “I’ll ask Hime-sama to take me, when I’m old enough,” Rowan declared.

Makino’s laugh was tender. “Oh yeah?” she mused, running her fingers through her hair again. It really could have used a cut. “Maybe you can have my job, and then I can stay here and wait for you to come home.”

Rowan beamed, seeming delighted by the prospect, before her smile softened into something that looked starkly vulnerable. “How long will you be gone?” she asked.

And it might have been a surprise, that almost fearful question from the girl who didn’t flinch at anything, but Makino remembered the little body who’d clung to her on the docks, the morning of her very first voyage off the island, refusing to let go.

“It shouldn’t be more than a few days,” she told her. “If it’s just a briefing, it’ll be a quick stop before we go back.” When her frown persisted, Makino pinched her cheek gently, her smile quirking. “So we won’t be gone very long. Try to stay out of trouble in the meantime, hmm? And be nice to Master Sorrel.”

She got a cheeky grin for that. “I am the _nicest_ ,” Rowan said sweetly. “And who says I’m not the one training _her_?”

Sorrel barked a laugh, and Makino echoed it, softer, before she bent down to kiss the crown of her head. “Maybe you’re right.”

A thought struck her then, thinking of their impending voyage, and the little girl who always saw her off when she left, and who was always the first at the docks to greet them when they returned. The one truth in her whole, half-forgotten life that had never wavered, but had always kept her grounded; that she’d known, and loved, even before she’d fully known herself.

“Here,” Makino said, reaching around her neck to unfasten the clasp of the anchor, before she made to fasten it around her daughter’s. Ceto made room, uncoiling to curl around Rowan's shoulder instead, her tiny yellow eyes peering curiously at the exchange.

Finished, Makino drew back a bit, thumbing the necklace where it rested atop the freckles across her throat, the silver anchor gleaming in the sunlight. She’d used to chew on it when she’d been a baby, cradled at her breast. The memory found her without warning, and left her suddenly short of breath.

Rowan’s eyes were wide where they shot up to seek hers. “Your anchor?”

Smiling, Makino touched a fingertip to the shank, and the delicate crown beneath, before reaching up to touch her nose. “I have the only anchor I need.”

The grin that brightened her whole face made her heart ache, and she didn’t know why, but then, “You’ll come back,” Rowan said, not a question but a statement, and Makino felt as her breath rushed out, like someone had struck her sharply between the ribs, and when her daughter threw her arms around her she didn’t know why her own shook as she gripped her back.

 _Come back to me. Come_ **_back_** _—_

“Yeah,” Makino said, and had to swallow when she heard her own voice, rough as though she was about to cry. She didn’t know why—it certainly wasn’t her first time leaving. She didn’t know where this reaction was coming from, or what had prompted it.

Rowan drew back then, small fingers reaching up to pluck at the anchor around her neck, her smile brilliant. Makino watched as it stretched across her whole face, lifting her cheeks, something nagging at the back of her mind, but when she tried to reach for it, it slipped through her fingers.

Blinking it away, “Come on,” Makino said, ruffling her hair, before she lifted back to her feet. “We’ll have dinner, and then you can come see us off if you want.”

“Can I come aboard the ship?”

Makino pinched her nose gently, and heard the nasal little laugh it sparked. “For two minutes,” she promised, with a wink. “Hime-sama doesn’t like to dawdle, so it won’t be any longer than that, but you can stay until we raise the anchor.”

Rowan threw her arms up with a grin, startling Ceto, who’d slithered back around her neck. “Yes! Thank you, mama!” Then, “Race you home!”

She was off before Makino could blink, and she watched as the little shape bolted down the street, her laughter trailing behind her.

Beside her, Sorrel gave a short laugh. “I think you’d need an actual anchor to keep that one still.”

Makino didn’t answer, watching the street, and her daughter weaving between the people in it, greeting everyone in her path with a smile and leaving another trail of laughter behind her, chasing her own. Endlessly adored, she was a small force of joy and relentless good humour, but Makino recognised the truth in Sorrel’s words; the restlessness in that eager little body that was always moving, and the eyes that sought the horizon so greedily.

She felt the missing anchor, and the naked stretch of her throat where it had rested for ten years. And she’d never needed a reminder to keep her feet planted; had never desired the horizon for what it promised, even knowing it might hold the answers she still didn’t know. But her daughter…Makino knew there was no anchoring that wandering heart.

Still, she was just a child, was barely ten years old, and the sea would let her keep her for a few more years, Makino thought, conviction firming as she reached for that wide expanse she could feel in the far periphery of her mind, calm and ever-present, but no mercy in that vast, bottomless soul.

But she’d stared down harder hearts than this and demanded they yield, and would demand no less of this one, for the sake of the one thing that mattered more than anything else; that was worth all the answers and all the freedom in the world.

 

—

 

It wasn’t a long voyage to Marineford, the first half spent in familiar waters as they crossed the length of the Calm Belt to Impel Down, the looming shadow of the great prison sending a chill down her back before they even reached it. Makino always made a point not to look directly at it. She’d never been able to put her finger on what bothered her about it, but it had a _presence_ , like the very gaol itself was alive.

She didn’t like how it felt, and even less what it promised; the underwater levels where they kept the greatest evils of the sea locked up.

The Gates of Justice rose before them with the morning sun, the unyielding stone touched with a blush of pink, although it did little to soften their foreboding appearance. Makino watched them from the deck as they drew closer. And she always held her breath as they passed through, as though waiting for the inevitable; that they’d be stopped, or shot down without question.

But nothing happened, and they were allowed to pass, but only when they’d put the gates behind them did she allow her shoulders to sink a bit, even as the tension in them remained, knowing it wouldn’t get any better where they were going.

“Dogs,” Hancock said, and Makino started, brought out of her mind's wanderings by the remark, her voice lowered, even as the lash of her tongue was still felt.

Hancock didn’t look at her, her unflinching gaze trained on the sea ahead. “That’s what they call us. The Warlords.” She scoffed. “Lords of nothing. _Lords_ do not bark when ordered by a master.”

Makino said nothing, observing the restless sea. She felt the push and pull of the currents beneath the ship, a surer sign than any that they were no longer in the Calm Belt. She didn’t look back to see if they’d put the gates behind them yet.

The breeze kissed her cheeks with salt, and she allowed her eyes to slip shut a moment, feeling the stirring of something nameless within her.

She’d known the sea like this once, she thought; with waves and wind. She wondered what name it’d had; if it had been one of the blues, or the Grand Line.

Hancock fell quiet again, but her words remained between them. And Makino knew it rankled, having had to make the deal, to offer her allegiance to the Government, but it was for the protection of their tribe that she’d done it. The tides were changing. The sea wasn’t what it had once been, and the Calm Belt alone wasn’t enough to protect them anymore. Pirates crossed that sea without hindrance every day. The navy, too. It had only been a matter of time before they were discovered.

She’d struggled to sleep some nights, thinking about it. She’d start awake, covered in sweat and with the smell of fire in her nose, imagining the rocking of a ship beneath her and unable to tell if they were memories or premonitions. It always took time to come back to herself, those nights—to recognise the walls of her home, and the solid ground beneath her. And she’d lie awake and listen to her daughter sleeping, that adorable little snore that stirred the quiet, and the wild sprawl of her limbs across the mattress, her red hair a bright, tangled mess.

She’d only ever known peace. And the thought that something should happen to disturb that peace had kept Makino awake more nights than she could count. Hancock’s arrangement with the Government had helped alleviate her worries somewhat, but even with that assurance, Makino wondered how long it could last, and how long they could protect themselves against the rest of the world. How long her daughter would be truly _safe_.

“I wonder, sometimes,” Hancock said then, with a sigh, “why I ever agreed to this arrangement.”

Makino watched her; that arrow-straight back, and the iron spine beneath. “You weighed the cost against the reward,” she said quietly, remembering her daughter’s words. They felt brittle on her own tongue now.

Hancock’s brow furrowed, her agreement unspoken. But for someone who’d spent four years of her life enslaved, who’d suffered the cruel whims of her masters, Makino knew the price the Government had asked for was higher than they were probably aware. That along with the purported glory and honour of being one of the Shichibukai was a _sacrifice_ , and for one who’d already sacrificed more of herself than most could bear to live with.

It sat between them always, that knowledge—the understanding that didn’t require speaking to exist. It wasn’t quite friendship. Not in the way one usually classified friendships, anyway. It wasn’t like Aster, sharing a drink after their closing shift, or hunting with Kikyo. It wasn’t like the other women she knew and spent time with, laughing over meals or hanging out their laundry; sharpening their weapons to gleaming, and polishing their fighting leathers. Hancock was different.

But for all their differences, theirs was perhaps a stronger bond, forged in something other than simple companionship, which never asked for more than that. But even if it _asked_ , for trust and for discretion, theirs was a mutual pact, and a comfortable quiet that never demanded chatter to fill it. Makino saw Hancock with her shoulders down, her guard lowered in a way it rarely was outside the palace walls, even among her own tribe. And Hancock trusted her with her back—to guard it, and to guard the reminder she carried, seared into her skin.

Makino smiled then, and with a softly musing hum, said, “At least the lunch spread is always nice.”

Hancock snorted, but Makino caught her startled smile before she killed it, and felt as her presence relented some of its tension, although it wasn’t a soft surrender. “The Fleet Admiral will hear about it if they’ve neglected to include the pickled herring.”

Makino’s smile widened. And she often wondered how many had ever had the privilege of witnessing a brief glimpse into the surprisingly dry humour that lurked beneath those layers of silk brocade and long-established standoffishness. She doubted there were many, aside from perhaps her sisters.

“You did well today,” Hancock said then, with a sideways glance that told Makino there was more than praise coming. “In the battle ring.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’.”

Hancock huffed. “You know what I’m referring to.”

“I wasn’t going to let her fall to her death,” Makino said.

“She would have survived,” Hancock said, not half a beat missed. “As you were well aware. Do not think I do not recognise a demonstration when I see one.”

Makino met her gaze, unflinching. And she suspected few had ever had the privilege of doing that, either, at least without the consequence of being turned to stone. Or tossed overboard. “I show my opponents mercy,” she said at length, turning her gaze back to the sea. “I've never made it a secret. And I don't plan to start just because you don't understand the sentiment.”

She heard Hancock's sigh, sounding torn between frustration and resignation. “You—”

Makino's voice was quiet when she asked, “What?”

Hancock only watched her, her brows furrowed above her eyes. “You are far too _honest._ Every emotion you feel, your face demonstrates. You have no fear that others should know.” She scoffed, but it was a softer sound this time. “I will not pretend to understand it.”

Makino looked at her, and felt how her expression softened. “Our experiences were different,” she said, keeping her voice down so as not to carry across the deck. “What you went through…” she trailed off, but then, “You’re dealing with it in your own way. I’m just doing the same.” Then, a little wryly, “And being unable to hide my emotions isn’t always a good thing. Sometimes I wish I had a bit more privacy, if only to be in my own mind without everyone else knowing what I'm thinking.”

Hancock observed her silently, and even now her face didn’t surrender her thoughts, her features arranged in that carefully considering if somewhat haughty mien that always managed to appear just a little bit annoyed. But Makino had known Hancock long enough to recognise that it was rarely an indication of what she was actually thinking, or feeling.

“Regardless, you have come a long way,” Hancock said then. And even offering praise, it was delivered without embellishment; a statement of fact more than anything else. “Today was an impressive display.”

Makino smiled. “You’re not regretting promoting me, then?” But it wasn’t only asked out of teasing. She still marvelled at it, sometimes—the decision she’d made ten years ago, when they’d barely known each other, to entrust her with her greatest secret.

Hancock only shrugged, as though it wasn't such a marvel to her, and, “I have few in my life I trust without question,” she said, as though having heard her question for what it was. “In every face, I look for deceit. For judgement.” She looked at her. “You are different. I knew, from the moment we met. You did not hide anything, or try to.” Her smile quirked, before it vanished. “It was—refreshing.”

Then, “And you did not end up where you are by doing _nothing_ ,” Hancock added, her voice firmer now, as though refuting the implicit suggestion of favouritism. “I gave you an opportunity, and you seized it. And you have proven yourself worthy of your position. No one who witnessed your victory today would doubt that you should be where you are.”

Her tone left no room for argument, although Makino didn’t really have any to offer, but then it was hard speaking past the sudden lump in her throat.

“And…I am grateful,” Hancock said then, and Makino blinked, before her gaze dropped back to meet hers. “For your company, and your counsel. What I lack in patience, you have in abundance.”

Makino hummed a laugh. “It helps having raised a ten-year-old who can’t sit still.”

Hancock made a short noise of agreement. “Your daughter is…”

“It’s okay. You can say it.”

“A _menace_.”

Makino grinned. “She’s a force to be reckoned with,” she agreed. Elder Nyon’s prediction had been correct where that was concerned; her daughter was a _force_.

Hancock considered her, her lips thinned to a firm line, but before Makino could even make a guess at what she might be thinking, “Do you wonder about him, still?” she asked. “Her father.”

Makino met her look, caught off guard by the question. She fought the sudden urge to reach for her throat, and the anchor that was no longer there. “I—”

But whatever her knee-jerk response had meant to be, she allowed it to trail off, although if there was anyone she could be perfectly honest with, it was probably Hancock, and so Makino murmured, “I would be lying if I said I didn’t.” Every time her daughter flashed that _grin_ , or threw back her head with that laugh. Makino’s laughter had always been subdued. Her smile, too, both of them much gentler things. Her daughter was loud in everything she did, every feeling and gesture. Of course there was a part of her that wondered if that bright, relentless _spirit_ had come from somewhere. From someone.

She’d tried to recall them more than once—the days she’d spent aboard the slaver; her very first memories. But they were faded now, pushed to the back of her mind in favour of newer, happier things. And she should be relieved that she couldn’t remember the tiny nuances; the smell of piss and brine and the reek of bodies, and the girls sobbing into their knees. She shouldn’t be thinking about it, but sometimes she couldn’t help it, trying in vain to remember if any of the slavers had had red hair. And red wasn’t that uncommon a colour, even though her daughter’s seemed a colour all its own.

“It is inevitable, I suppose,” Hancock said then. “Given your memory loss.”

Makino nodded, still prodding at that old thought, like at an aching tooth, and for a beat they were silent, before she said, “She doesn’t ask about him anymore.”

Hancock arched a brow. “A good thing?”

Frowning, “I don’t know,” Makino said. “She used to ask about him all the time. From the moment she learned where babies come from.” Her smile was quick, remembering the event, and her own, stuttered attempts at redirecting the conversation to safer waters, before it fell. “I told her I’d tell her when she got older.” She shook her head, regret cinching tight around her heart, so much that it hurt breathing. “I was lying. I just didn’t have the heart to tell her. About any of it.”

She looked at the sea, staring back without judgement. “I don’t know if I ever will,” she admitted then. “What good would it do her, knowing? That her father might have been a slaver, or that I was—”

She couldn’t finish, but Hancock’s look conveyed understanding. “She is young, yet,” she said. “But it is your story to tell.”

“I know,” Makino said. “I just…I wanted to spare her, for as long as I could. She looks at the world like something to be discovered. She’s not afraid of it, and I don’t want her to be, but at the same time…”

“You want her to be wary,” Hancock finished for her. “So the same fate doesn’t befall her.”

Makino nodded. “I don’t even know how I ended up on that ship, if I was careless or just at the wrong place at the wrong time, but whichever it was, I still got caught. I couldn’t save myself. And she’s—she’s always looked at me like I can fix everything. Like I’m the strongest person she knows, and I don’t know how I can tell her about that time.”

“You were strong then,” Hancock said. “You would not have survived it otherwise.”

Makino didn’t answer—didn’t say that she knew, because Hancock understood that it wasn’t about strength, not really. There was a reason the rest of their tribe remained unawares of their Empress’ past. The mark on her back.

“You know, when she was younger,” Makino began then, smile wavering as she rooted through her memories, so many now where she'd once had none, “she’d always ask if he was some great hero, away on a dangerous adventure. Or a king, like in her favourite story. I think she really wanted it to be true—that he would show up one day and whisk us away to a faraway kingdom.” She paused, and with a sigh, “Part of me wonders if she still hopes it will happen one day. If, deep down, she’s waiting for it. For him.” Whenever she got that look in her eyes; the one that Makino recognised as _longing_.

“I think…” she continued, choosing her words with care, extracting the hurtful truth from where she’d hoarded it for ten years, “I think I wanted it, too. That part of me still does.” A lost queen rather than a born slave, missing for ten years, and the king that never stopped searching. Like right out of a fairy story.

Her laugh was short, soft, as she murmured, “Silly as that probably sounds.”

“He will have trouble,” Hancock said dryly, “if he ever sets foot on Amazon Lily.”

Makino blurted a laugh, a suddenly loud sound, even as she felt the ache that gripped her heart. “I believe you.”

The Gates of Justice had appeared before them again, but she didn’t hold her breath this time as they passed through, although it wasn’t relief she found upon her first sight of Marineford.

The sun was wide awake as they drew into port, the Yuda easing the ship into the busy bay. There were navy ships on all sides, some moored and others passing as they arrived, headed out to sea. Most were bigger than theirs, galleons and men-of-war, their masts looming high above their heads and their white sails like clouds where they blocked out the sky, and the navy’s insignia bold and blue; the seagull’s wings spanned wide across the canvas.

Makino felt as their arrival was noticed, but then between the Yuda and the red-dyed sails, Hancock’s ship wasn’t exactly subtle, although even with her position, the distrust that greeted them was expected. The Warlord system wasn’t popular among the lower ranks, and probably with good reason. But even with an extended invitation, she’d never once felt welcomed here.

She brushed an imaginary speck of dust off the dress wrapped over her armour, the supple green velvet slipping smoothly through her fingers, the colour so dark it was almost black. The bodice beneath was brand new; burnished silver beautifully decorated with delicate engravings. Makino passed her fingers over the embossing in the metal, tracing the protruding branches of the rowan tree. Hancock had suggested inlaying it with rubies, marking the clusters of berries, but Makino had balked, and promptly refused, and so the design was simple, but elaborate in its intricacy.

It was more regalia than she usually wore while she was home, preferring simple leathers and soft dresses, her colourful scarves, but they were on official business, and they knew better than most how important appearances were, especially where they were going. They couldn’t afford to show any signs of weakness here, not in their composure or their dress. And even in armour they needed to be careful of what kind of message they were sending, demonstrating their strength, but not too overtly. They couldn’t afford to be seen as a legitimate _threat_.

Her scarred shoulder covered by the dress and her right left bare, it was a vulnerability that left her itching, but aside from the bodice and her armguards, she wore no more armour, the velvet softening the suggestion found in the polished metal beneath; the reminder that they were warriors first. Femininity was a powerful tool, in a place with mostly men who were altogether too quick to dismiss them on behalf of it, mistaking it for weakness.

More fools, them.

She smoothed her hands over the velvet again, revelling in the softness of it, and the delicate filigree of the belt cinched around her waist, mimicking the sinuous wrap of a serpent, its tail curled around its own neck. Silver and green, and the red scarf wrapped around her braided hair; the colours of morning dew and deep forests, and her heart’s blood. Little reminders of the home she treasured, even out at sea.

In contrast, Hancock cut an unforgiving figure in lilacs and gold, no armour beneath the sheer layers of her dress, looking every bit the royal Empress but none the warrior that waited beneath the beautiful silks, even as she’d exchanged her crown for less suggestive jewellery. Because for all that they knew she was the leader of their tribe, the World Government liked conquerors even less than they liked pirates, and it wouldn’t do them any favours reminding them that Hancock was very much both. Better she conform to their expectations; a ruler that was little more than a figurehead, renowned for her beauty before the power that she wielded, the conqueror’s haki that could lay half of Marineford at her feet if she wished. The same power that ran through her daughter’s veins.

Makino spared a thought to the pirates who ruled the New World, the conquerors who were called Emperors and who acted as nothing less, and the Pirate King who’d come before them. Perhaps the Government was right to be wary of those who’d seek to usurp the throne of the world.

She’d never crossed paths with any of them, but then they kept to their territories in the New World, and Makino only left Amazon Lily on rare occasions, and then only to Marineford. She’d never been beyond the Red Line.

But it was for the best, probably. Strong as Hancock was, and their crew, they would have little to offer in a confrontation with an Emperor’s force. Whitebeard’s fleet was renowned as one of the strongest on the sea, and Kaidou was rumoured to have a whole army. And she knew only little of Big Mom beyond her ruthless ambition, but was glad of it.

As for the last one…

Makino didn’t know much about him, the one they called Red-Hair, other than that he was rumoured to be one of the greatest swordsmen in the world, despite his infamous handicap. But they said he was honourable—that he was just, if such a thing could be said about a pirate with that much power.

But she remembered a newspaper from ten years ago, and the auction house on Sabaody. They’d rebuilt it, Makino knew, and hadn’t been surprised to learn that, but that hadn’t changed what he’d done. And she still didn’t know why he’d destroyed it, but she _remembered_ that. It was the one thing that made him seem more human than the other three, who were all larger than life, and monstrous for a whole variety of reasons.

Of course, monsters came in different shapes. Makino knew that better than most; had seen the worst monsters the world could conjure, wearing human skin as they sold their peers for profit. Just because Red-Hair didn’t look the part didn’t dismiss the very real possibility that he could be worse than the other three combined.

“Let’s get this over with,” Hancock said as the gangway was dropped, and the crew set about mooring the ship to the port. But when Makino turned to them, they paused, attentive.

“I’ll escort Hime-sama to the meeting,” she said, the quiet authority sitting with ease on her tongue, for all that she’d held this post less than a year. But she was good at it, she’d discovered—keeping everyone in check, and overseeing that things were done as they should. “You all know the drill. No one leaves the ship while we’re gone.”

They saluted, not even a flicker of hesitation in any of their reactions. “Aye, Commander!”

A nod of acknowledgement, and Makino turned to walk off the gangway, a sigh easing out of her as her feet touched down on solid ground. Even if she didn’t get seasick as easily as she once had, she’d never taken to seafaring, preferring the safety of solid earth under her feet, even if nothing felt truly _safe_ here.

Marineford was a far cry from Amazon Lily, the lush greenery and the damp, loamy smell that always greeted them on the shore replaced with brine and gunpowder, washing over them as they walked from the port. All around them were ships being loaded, and rows of marines in their pressed uniforms standing at attention, awaiting orders.

It felt to Makino like a machine, well-oiled and running without a hitch, but lacking anything more personal than that, no friendly greetings or laughter amidst the voices rising above the din, and the brisk stamping of booted feet, marching in perfect unison across the cobbled stones.

They drew eyes as they walked, Hancock commanding the most attention, although Makino felt their glances drifting her way as well, and lingering. But she didn’t let it put so much as a stutter in her pace, or allow herself to lower her chin from where she’d raised it, her spine steeled as she followed Hancock across the wharf towards their destination; the great stone structure that housed the navy’s headquarters.

She heard them murmuring as they passed, and felt their presences, some curious and inquiring, some outright amazed, while others were sharpened with a familiar edge of suspicion. And those that were worse still—the leering gazes that lingered the longest; that followed them as they walked, and didn’t let go until they’d passed through the main doors.

The inside was as pristine as the outside, the floors recently polished and the corridor carrying a bright, clean smell.

Hancock’s heels were loud on the tiles, the gentler echo of Makino’s soft-soled boots doing little to ease her almost aggressive approach, but it was always effective. The officers in their path scrambled to get out of her way, before having to do a double-take, arrested by the sight of her, but Hancock’s chin didn’t tremble from where she’d lifted it, as though prepared to stare down the whole marine base if needed.

“I will never be comfortable between these walls,” she murmured, when an older officer had stopped walking just to stare at them.

Makino silently agreed. “If we’re lucky, it won’t be a long meeting,” she said, and hoped she was right; that it was just a briefing, and that they didn’t have anything specific in mind. It wasn’t often they received orders, but it did happen, and they hadn’t exactly been very prolific in capturing pirates by their own volition.

They passed a group of young officers, boys and girls who barely seemed old enough to be in uniform, talking excitedly.

"Hey, did you hear that Garp the Hero just arrived? Someone said they saw his ship drawing into port earlier.”

“What?! Oh, I hope I catch a glimpse of him, I’ve been following his career for years!”

“Christ, you and your old man crush. You know he’s over seventy years old?”

“S-shut up!”

She saw one of them give his companion a playful shove, and their laughter reached towards her, tempting a smile quite despite herself, before she realised what she was doing, and let it drop.

But it was sometimes all too easy to forget that some of them were little more than children; that whatever her personal feelings about the World Government, the navy officers who’d pledged their allegiance to it weren’t all the same body of evil. There were heroes in their ranks who deserved that title, and young hearts who’d done nothing but long for justice, and a peaceful world.

She thought of Rowan again, and wondered. That restless little heart that had always longed to see the world. Had things been different, would she have wanted to join the navy ranks? Or would she have become a pirate instead, to be hunted by them?

They’d reached the conference chamber, and Hancock paused, before inclining her head towards her. “I will be finished shortly.” A wry glance at the doorway, before she murmured under her breath, “Turning them all to stone should speed up proceedings.”

Makino smiled. “They’ll make you attend a seminar for that.”

Hancock snorted. “Do not remind me.”

She made to enter, and Makino remained outside for a beat, before turning to walk back down the corridor, uncomfortable in the presence of the navy officers stationed by the doorway, but wanting to be nearby, in case she was needed. She didn’t have any weapons on her, the weight of her bow missing from around her back, as they wouldn’t have allowed her entry fully armed. And even if she could easily hold her own with her bare hands, it wasn’t much of an assurance, taking in the firearms carried by the officers she passed.

The Warlords were similarly expected to come unarmed, although none of them needed weapons, most of them powerful devil fruit users, and even the navy had to recognise that it was a useless sentiment.

Of course, there were those who plainly refused, and she’d barely finished the thought when she felt him.

He’d just turned the corner at the far end of the corridor, his stature throwing a long shadow across the tiles, further lengthened by the jewelled hilt of the massive blade jutting up over his shoulder. He was headed for the meeting room behind her, his strides unhurried but purposeful, as though he was wilfully taking his time. Makino had only ever seen him once from afar, but she knew who he was. She didn’t think there existed a soul on this sea that didn’t.

He had a presence unlike anyone she’d ever met. Sharp and searching, it gave the sense that there was no hiding from that ruthless focus, even with his face shielded by the low brim of his hat. It perched in her mind, quietly considering. He’d sensed her own assessment.

She glanced up as they passed, meeting his eyes briefly, and very nearly regretted it for how they _seized_ her. And she’d heard the bird of prey comparison before, but she hadn’t imagined it had been so literally meant.

It was over a second later, their gazes leaving each other—or rather, his releasing hers, and Makino heard how her breath caught, but didn’t break her stride as she passed him.

But she _felt_ his eyes when they went back to her, although he’d barely inclined his head; felt the barest spark of intrigue in his presence, which gripped her like his eyes had, but his second look lasted only half as long as his first, before he’d redirected his attention to where he was going.

Makino heard her heart beating, and so loudly she wondered if he could hear it, all the way down the corridor. Like a mouse that had just slipped a predator’s gaze, and even after he’d released her, his intrigue lingered. But it wasn't the same interest as that of the navy officers; that quietly leering appraisal that hid behind blank expressions and false courtesy. This had been a different sort, bemusement mingled with the barest inkling of recognition, although they’d never actually met before.

She didn’t know what had possessed him. He didn’t strike her as the kind of man who offered second glances.

She shook it off, and didn’t stop until she’d rounded the corner, although it took going all the way down to the next floor until she felt that she was finally free of that watchful hawk’s gaze.

 

—

 

They were readying the ship for departure.

Perched atop the crate, Rowan watched them working, clearing the hold to make room for a new shipment. Her eyes tracked their movements eagerly, back and forth as they worked, laughing and talking among each other, the sounds blending with the other noises of the quiet wharf.

She'd always loved the feeling of the docks swaying beneath her, the gentle creaking of the planks and the briny smell of the sea. If she closed her eyes, she could imagine she was on deck; could even imagine there was a breeze teasing her hair, even if there was no wind here, and she didn’t really know what it felt like.

They were almost finished with the ship. She caught some of them waving at her, and returned the gesture, grinning. They were used to her presence, and her curiosity; had answered all her questions ten times over, ever since she’d been old enough to ask them. They’d only recently started importing things from the world outside. They’d explained it, when she’d asked—that even though Amazon Lily was rich with natural resources, there were some things that were necessary, if they wanted to keep up with the technology of the outside world. Things like Den Den Mushi, and broadcasting devices.

They’d mistaken her excitement for nothing more than curious interest, indulging her whenever she’d asked about everything from their captain’s sleeping schedule to their shipping manifests; the size of the hold and the crew on board, and how long they were gone, each voyage. The islands they visited, and in which order; names and coordinates and port towns. A child’s curiosity, and part of it was that, but Rowan had ulterior motives for asking about the ship’s comings and goings.

It was her ticket.

They always travelled in disguise, pretending to be a regular crew on normal merchant vessel, with blank sails and nothing to suggest where they came from, or with what purpose. Unlike Hime-sama’s ship, this one was plain, and unadorned. A simple caravel, and Rowan could have picked out the type with her eyes closed. Her mother had often indulged her interest, going through the one, well-thumbed picture book she owned with painstaking care, naming all the different ships until she'd known them by heart.

This ship wasn’t meant to be noticed. And unlike the ones who pulled Hime-sama’s ship, the Yuda pulling this one were trained to hide beneath the water when they neared populated islands, staying out of sight until they reached the Calm Belt again. Charon and Tiamat, Rowan had known them her whole life, and their names—their real ones; not the ones they’d been given, but the ones they’d given her, when she’d asked.

Tiamat—whose real name was Storm-on-the-Horizon—watched her now, her slitted yellow eyes fixed on hers and her look curiously knowing, as though aware of what she was up to. She was the bigger of the pair, her scales a perfect, iridescent blue, to better blend with the sea, and the thick fur along her back gleamed with saltwater, like tiny jewels strung between the coarse strands. Her mate was of a darker colouring, a blue that was almost black, like the very bottom of the sea, and his eyes like golden lanterns, heavy-lidded where they watched her. Called Shadow-in-the-Reeds, he was usually quiet, content to observe rather than converse, although that had never stopped Rowan from trying.

 _Careful, little lion_ , Storm hissed. Rowan heard the echo of her voice within her, soft as threading her fingers through spools of silk. _This world is bigger than you think._

Rowan just grinned, finding nothing but encouragement in that gentle warning, and heard Storm’s laughter within her, warmly amused.

But oh, she wanted to see it—that vast, open world. The four blues and the Grand Line. She wanted to see Reverse Mountain, and Sky Island, if it really existed, like the legends said. She wanted to see the Holy Land, and the mermaids on Fishman Island that auntie Kikyo had told her about, and she wanted to sail to the very end of the world, where the Pirate King had hidden his treasure. She wanted to see _everything_.

But it wasn’t safe, and her mother had told her that countless times, although it wasn’t really fair that she could say that, and still leave when it pleased her. She could go to Marineford with Hime-sama, but Rowan was stuck on Amazon Lily, doing the same things she always did. She read, and practiced her haki, and played in the forest. She knew her island inside out; the whole town and everyone in it. She had her lessons with Master Sorrel, and played chess with aunt Kikyo when she wasn’t hunting. She polished glasses at Aster's tavern while her mother worked, until she fell asleep, and her mother carried her home.

And when she was alone and the adults were busy, she practised tying sailor’s knots, and pretended the trees outside her house were actually the rigging of her ship, but even her imagination couldn’t do the real thing justice, Rowan knew.

She looked up at the ship again, feeling how her breathing quickened in her chest.

She’d been thinking about this a lot; had thought about it the last five times she’d watched it getting ready for departure, but this was the first time an opportunity had presented itself, with her mother in Marineford with Hime-sama.

“It takes two weeks,” Rowan said, looking up at the ship, before glancing down at Ceto where she lay curled around her neck, half-tangled with the anchor. “I counted. It always takes them two weeks from when they leave to when they come back. They leave once every other month, on the fifth.” She grinned, and excitement left her voice breathless when she looked back at the ship, and said, “That’s how we’ll get back.”

Ceto watched her, her pink tongue slithering past her tiny fangs. _This is not a good idea._

Still grinning, Rowan ignored the warning. And her mother called her endless chatter endearing, but she didn’t know that it wasn’t made up; that Rowan could _hear_ them speaking, in her head. The animals on the island. The Yuda, and the sea kings in the water. She’d had Ceto since the day she’d hatched; had heard her first word, and had loved her ever since.

She didn’t know why she could hear them; knew only that she did. She’d stopped finding it strange, even if she wondered sometimes if it was.

“Mama said they’d be gone a few days. But maybe it'll be a whole week, like last time. By the time she gets back, it’ll only be a few weeks until I return. She’ll barely have time to worry.”

She got an imploring look for that, although it wasn’t conveyed by her expression as much as the flicker of emotion she felt, as Ceto hissed, _You think like a child! It will break her heart if she comes back and finds you gone._

“It won’t,” Rowan was quick to counter, because she was sure of this, the fierce swell of admiration at the thought making her grin brighten. “Not mama. She’s too strong for that.” And with a teasing flick to the little tail curled around her neck, “And you’re not much older than I am, you know,” she said, pertly. “For a snake.”

 _That may be_ , Ceto hissed. _But I still stand by my words. This is a terrible_ _idea!_

“Oh, come on! I left a note. I explained everything.” Well—not _everything_ , but the gist of it. Enough that her mother shouldn’t be worried about her; that she would know she'd come home, and when.

“What?” she sighed, when all Ceto did was look at her, her expression accusing. “It’s not reckless!” If snakes had brows to arch, Rowan suspected she would have done it, and threw her hands up. “You’re assuming I’ll get caught. I won’t!”

_You could not sneak into the battle ring yesterday, to see your mother._

“That’s different.”

_How?_

“It—just _is_ , okay? Would you stop being such a worrywart? I know how to hide my presence. Master Sorrel thinks I’m not taking my training seriously, but joke’s on her, last week she spent an hour searching for me and I was watching her from auntie Kikyo’s roof.” She flashed a grin. “I’m a _prodigy_. That’s what everyone says.”

Ceto’s tongue slithered past her teeth; the snake’s equivalent of a snort, Rowan thought. _Your abilities are certainly a match for your ego._

Rowan grinned. “Thanks!”

_That was not a compliment!_

“Says you. I still heard one.”

 _Oooh, you_ — _are impossible!_

Rowan just patted her head. “Come on,” she said, her tone imploring this time. “Are you really that worried?”

Ceto curled her head a little closer to her neck, her tail twitching. Her voice when she spoke next was very small. _I have never been off this island._

“Well, neither have I. It’ll be an adventure for the both of us.”

When her reluctance persisted, Rowan sighed. “It’ll be _fine_ ,” she assured her. “They’ll leave, and at the first island they dock, we’ll sneak off before they start loading the hold. They’ll continue to the next island before they circle back to Amazon Lily. We'll have a few weeks to explore the sea, and then when they go back next month, we’ll be waiting on the docks right where they left us. It’s foolproof!”

Ceto didn’t seem convinced _. Not if you are the fool. There are too many variables—_

“Only if you think about it too closely,” Rowan cut her off. “It’s pretty simple in theory. You take a ship, you go somewhere, and then you take a ship back to where you came from. Easy peasy.”

Ceto still didn’t agree, and, “Relax,” Rowan said, reaching up to rub her head gently with her fingertip. “It’s just one little voyage. And they won’t notice we’re there, I promise.” She grinned, and then, “We’ll be stowaways, like in mama’s favourite book. We’ll sneak food from the galley, and sleep in shifts. It’ll be fun!”

Her grin persisted despite the despondent look Ceto directed up at her, and, “Look,” Rowan said, nodding to the crew, who’d finished their preparations. “This is our chance, before they raise the anchor.”

Ceto said nothing, her feelings made evident by the way her tail curled a little tighter around her neck as Rowan set off towards the ship where it waited in the water, as though for her. The crew’s attentions were elsewhere. This was her chance.

She felt her eagerness brimming within her, bubbling up from where she’d kept in in check for weeks, ever since she’d first started making her plans. The real reason she wanted to go out to sea, other than seeing the world. The one question she wanted answered more than anything.

And she’d only ever shared this with Ceto—her theory. She hadn’t even told her mother about her suspicions; the pirate she’d seen so many times in the newspaper, and the clippings she’d squirrelled away, safely out of her mother’s sight. One of the Four Emperors of the New World. The man they called _Red-Hair._

She tucked her own behind her ears, catching the colour from out of her periphery. No one on their whole island had hair like hers.

It couldn’t be a coincidence. And she’d never asked her mother outright, but the way she tried to avoid the subject, evading every single question with the assurance that she’d tell her when she was older…Rowan was sure she had it right. If he’d been some nameless sailor, like her friend Tulip’s father who’d been from South Blue, her mother wouldn’t have been so hesitant to talk about him. It had to be because Rowan already knew who he was; because he was _famous_.

“I wanna find him,” she said, not just to Ceto but to the sea, who seemed to accept the challenge, delighted laughter stirring the calm waters, although that might just have been her imagination. But Rowan allowed it to shape her grin as she raised her eyes to the ship, feeling it inside her; that sense she sometimes had, that something big was about to happen.

“My dad.”

 


	7. fragile and ferocious

He’d been at Headquarters less than ten minutes and someone was already trying to bore him into an early retirement via a truly impressive amount of paperwork.

Garp glared down at the small mountain on his desk, the top of which had been flagged with a week-old coffee stain and a bright yellow post-it that declared its urgent need of being completed and filed, followed by an alarming number of exclamation marks.

Damn bureaucratic vultures. And _effective_ ones at that, but then he’d learned not to expect anything less from Sengoku. The second someone caught wind of his ship docking there’d be a pile waiting on his desk, usually before Garp had even had the chance to disembark.

Opening his bottom desk drawer, Garp dumped the whole pile into it, and shoved it closed so hard the whole desk rattled. It toppled the picture frame sitting by his Den Den Mushi, and he reached for it without thinking, before he halted.

There was a long moment where he just stared at the back of it, before he gave in with a breath, and reached out to lift it back up.

Luffy’s grinning face looked back, a chubby, round-cheeked toddler, and Garp almost couldn’t get himself to look at the girl holding him. She’d been sixteen when the picture had been taken, he thought. Still a little awkward, in the way of teenagers. A tiny little thing with too-large eyes, and her flower-patterned kerchief askew.

Garp sighed, and slumped down in his chair. It greeted his bulk with a distressing little squeak, which he promptly ignored.

He looked at the girl in the photo, smiling back. Had she been a few years older, she might be mistaken for the boy’s mother, even with their dissimilar colourings; her paler complexion, and the sea glass in her dark hair.

Of course, she hadn’t been many years older when she’d called him with the news. She’d have a ten-year-old now, had things turned out differently.

He didn’t like thinking about it. Not because he couldn’t imagine how it might have been, but because he _could_. He could imagine visiting, but instead of the girl who’d once greeted his returns it would be her daughter running to meet him at the docks, asking questions already before he’d had the chance to step off the gangway. Maybe she’d have dark hair, like her mother, or her father’s far more damning legacy, but the thought that Garp might have once cared which it should be seemed inconceivable now, as though anything had ever mattered beyond the fact that she’d be healthy, and safe.

He would have loved her. It wouldn’t even have been a question, because he loved Roger’s son like his own and it wouldn’t have been any different for this one, Garp knew. Not for Makino’s child, even if it was Red-Hair’s.

 _Garp_ , she’d said, with so much tenderness he hadn’t been able to hold on to his anger. _You’ll be a grandpa again._

His sigh shook from his chest with a bitter, deprecating laugh. The irony had seemed almost fated, once; as though there'd been someone behind the scenes, pulling the strings of his life, tangling them with those of the same outlaws he'd vowed he'd bring to justice.

But this wasn't about him, or Roger or even Red-Hair. And the Fates weren't this cruel, he thought. Maybe Garp deserved it, but this couldn't be _her_ destiny, the girl who'd been the embodiment of kindness, and who'd only ever deserved to be happy.

He looked at the picture again, taking in the windmill in the background, and the calm sea beyond. He didn’t really visit Fuschia anymore, bypassing it whenever he stopped by Dadan’s. He didn’t know what had happened to her bar; if anyone had taken over running it, or if it had just been left as it had been.

Emiko would have throttled him. Not for the bar, never something so materialistic, but for the daughter she’d loved, who’d loved it so fiercely. But he hadn’t been able to step inside, let alone make himself look through her belongings, to take the time to pack them and store them somewhere. All the books she’d loved, that she’d so meticulously collected. Everything she’d ever owned, that she’d made for herself, the youngest proprietor Garp had ever known but she hadn’t let that stop her from being the best she could be, and he hadn’t even been able to do her memory the honour of making sure her business was taken care of in her absence.

There was a second where he considered putting the picture away, in the bottom drawer with his neglected paperwork, but like every other time the impulse had seized him, Garp hesitated.

Makino looked back at him, no judgement in those eyes, no matter how hard he looked for it. It would have been easier if there had been, he thought; if he’d known she would blame him for everything he’d failed to do, but she wouldn’t have, and that was a heavier burden than Garp had the strength to carry.

There was some kind of commotion going on in the hallway outside his office, people passing by, their voices raised with excitement, but Garp didn’t pay it any mind. They’d need an outright war to get his ass out of this chair.

A knock sounded, the kind that usually heralded a headache, but it wasn’t more paperwork that greeted him as Sengoku ducked through the doorway, expression predictably burdened, if a tinge dry.

“Save me from the enthusiasm of amorous youth,” he sighed, shutting the door behind him. In the hallway outside, Garp could hear more raised voices, and the sound of feet moving quickly past his office.

He grunted, “The hell’s everyone so riled up for?”

Sengoku’s smile crooked wryly, as he moved to take a seat. “A Warlord summit. The Pirate Empress is in attendance.” He shook his head, his gaze going to the door, and the group of officers rushing by, laughing excitedly. “I’m beginning to wonder if we need to implement some kind of preventive measures. That woman derails a whole day’s schedule just by showing up.”

He looked at Garp then, the glint of mischief in his eyes an old thing, harking back to younger days. “That being said, she is undeniably striking,” Sengoku said. “Want to head down and see if we can catch a glimpse before she leaves?”

The look Garp shot him was knowing—and just as old. “You wanna say that a bit louder, so Tsuru can hear you?”

Sengoku's grin flashed, but Garp caught him stealing a nervous glance over his shoulder, even though he’d closed the door. Then again, Tsuru had the hearing of a bat. “Maybe not.”

Garp said nothing, but thoughts of a different time always brought with them the unforgiving reminder of the years that had passed, and he felt every single one as he sank a bit further into the chair, suddenly tired. He made a conscious effort not to look at the picture this time.

“Garp,” Sengoku said then. His tone had changed, the dry teasing in it gone now. “What’s on your mind?”

Garp shook his head. “Just an old anniversary coming up.” Every year, he remembered her phone call, and every year, he wondered if he might have changed something, if he’d acted sooner; if he’d found Red-Hair sooner, like she’d asked.

“Ah,” Sengoku said, understanding, and Garp saw his eyes where they dropped to the picture, although the back of the frame was turned towards him, but then he’d seen it enough times to know what was in it. “Your girl.” His expression softened a bit, before he said, “I am sorry that we couldn’t find her.”

There was genuine regret in his voice as he said it, but then Sengoku had been one of the few who hadn't immediately considered it a lost cause, back when he'd first started looking. Of course, Garp had neglected to mention one rather important detail pertaining to the child she'd been carrying, namely the identity of the father.

Then again, given Sengoku's own history, it might not have made a difference if he'd known it was Red-Hair.

Garp shrugged, and felt how stiff the gesture was. “Always knew it was a long shot.” But gods, even knowing that, he’d tried. Even knowing how poor their odds had been, there’d been a part of him that had refused to acknowledge the facts, like there was a part of him that had never stopped believing she was still alive somewhere. And Garp didn’t know if it was Luffy’s stubborn influence or something in himself that made it harder than it should be to just let her go.

He should have let her rest; should have allowed her that, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He couldn’t stop thinking about where she might be any more than he could stop himself from poring over passenger manifests every time they intercepted a slave ship, or rooted out an illegal operation, looking for anyone who might fit her description, even just a little ( _human, female, approx. 30 years old, dark hair, brown eyes)._ He’d even scoured the legal records, listing the indentured Government servants who were slaves in every way but on paper, but he’d found nothing.

He had no idea if she was still alive, and if she was, could barely bring himself to wonder what had happened to have kept her missing for ten years, and to give no word of her whereabouts to anyone. He couldn't imagine she wouldn't have tried, which left only one, hard-to-swallow truth: that she couldn't. And if she hadn’t been recaptured, there were still other possibilities. Remote islands far out of the Government’s reach whose technology was decades behind the rest of the world, keeping her cut off from it, and everyone she knew. And he knew Red-Hair was looking in the New World, but too much of that sea was still a mystery. She could be anywhere.

A whole decade of searching, and he had nothing to show for it but unanswered questions, not just about Makino, but about her child, wondering if it had survived along with her. Garp didn’t know if it had been a boy or a girl, knew only that they’d be ten this year, and just thinking about it left him feeling old, and desperately tired.

He hadn’t talked to Red-Hair in years. Garp couldn’t even bring himself to try.

He looked at the picture again, of that wilful sixteen-year-old who’d hidden books in her apron and shirked her duties. And he imagined her the way she’d been, the young proprietor, responsible beyond her years—tried to picture her, a mother-to-be, her stomach rounding under her apron.

He tried to imagine how she’d look now, almost thirty years old. He wondered what ten years would have made of her, and the girl she’d been; of those dainty features, and the pale freckles. Those kind, dark eyes that were bigger than anything.

But even if the image eluded him, he could so easily picture her as a mother; gently authoritative, and tenderly affectionate in that effortless way she’d had about her, to _love_ , and fiercely. She’d always had a way with children, had the most giving heart Garp had ever known, and it would have thrived in that role—to be able to give all that love without hesitation.

No, he had no trouble picturing it, and that was probably crueller than anything else his mind could come up with.

There was more noise from the hallway, and Sengoku shook his head. “To be young and enamoured.”

“Won’t get much work outta the pups today,” Garp agreed.

Sengoku only eyed the empty space on his desk, where the imprint of the paperwork mountain seemed to linger, before he glanced up, a single brow arched with a silent question.

“Can’t,” Garp deadpanned. “The Pirate Empress is here. It’s hard to focus.”

Sengoku snorted. “Nice. You’re a credit to your rank, Garp.”

“Tell me in my next paycheque,” Garp said, raising his eyes to the door, and the footsteps hurrying past, this time accompanied by delighted and distinctly feminine laughter. Not even Tsuru’s division was impervious to the promise of the fabled Pirate Empress.

“She come alone?” Garp asked then. “Boa Hancock. Saw her sisters, first time she was here. Heard about the curse.”

“You’d think it would be a deterrent,” Sengoku mused, shaking his head. “But no, she has a different escort now. Her second-in-command, I've been told. They say she’s beautiful, although I’ve yet to have the pleasure of seeing it for myself. Boa Hancock’s tribe is…reticent, when it comes to making introductions.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Garp said dryly, “with everyone in this place falling over their asses just to get a look.”

As though to prove his point, another group of officers charged by his office, sounding like they were racing towards a finish line.

Sengoku’s look was chagrined. “Yes, well…I can’t really blame them for being a little excited. That kind of beauty isn’t exactly standard procedure around here.”

“Tsuru probably heard that,” Garp said.

“ _I did_ ,” came the calm retort from the other side of the door, and Sengoku flinched back in his chair.

Garp shook his head, gaze glancing off the picture again, finding her face smiling back, forever sixteen and still no judgement in those guileless eyes, even if there was no one who deserved it more than he did.

One more year, and no more answers. He wondered sometimes if he’d ever get them; if he’d ever know what had happened to her, or where the sea had taken her, and her child.

And whether it would ever give them back, one way or another.

 

—

 

“They want us to go to the New World?”

Makino couldn’t help the slight quaver that accompanied the question, rushing out of her, along with her breath. Out of all the things their summons to Marineford could have heralded, she hadn’t even considered this.

Hancock set her jaw. Beneath the thin veil of her calm, she looked livid. “Apparently,” she said, with a controlled breath as she nearly spat, “I have ‘not been sufficiently proactive in demonstrating a commitment to my position’.” She threw a look over her shoulders at the navy headquarters behind them, as though directing the words at it.

Makino followed her gaze, through the clouds of white sails towards the building they’d left. Hancock hadn’t spoken a single word all the way back to the ship, but her posture had been tense, her steps eating up the ground so aggressively she'd almost had to run to keep up, which had told Makino enough of what had transpired at the meeting, before Hancock had finally recounted the events.

They weren’t the only ones who’d been given specific orders, although according to Hancock, the suggestion had been made clear that _certain parties_ had not been as prolific as others in terms of upholding their end of their contract. An alliance of their type did, regrettably, require some kind of compromise.

Frowning, Makino mulled over their orders as Hancock had relayed them. Simple enough on the surface—hunt down and capture a wanted pirate who’d last been seen crossing through Fishman Island, before he joined the ranks of any of the Four Emperors. The navy didn’t have a steady foothold in the New World; if they wanted him captured, sending one of the Warlords was their best bet, although it still felt like a lot of effort to go through for a single pirate. Which left one rather obvious answer.

“So it’s a test of loyalty,” Makino said, looking back at Hancock, who was still watching Marineford.

Her lip curled back from her teeth as she sneered, “Indeed.”

Around them, the others were quiet, their expressions pensive as they awaited their orders. Had the meeting been just any other briefing, they’d be raising anchor now, ready to head back to Amazon Lily, but this changed everything. If they were going to the New World, they needed to resupply, and send word about their delay. A voyage like this could take weeks. Months, if they were unsuccessful, and that wasn’t even counting getting _into_ the New World.

“What about the crossing?” Makino asked. Going through Fishman Island was always risky, but she’d heard the latest rumours of even more ships going missing than usual.

Just the prospect of going _under_ the sea had her stomach twisting into knots. Makino tried not to let it show on her face.

“We have been granted permission to go through the Red Port,” Hancock said. “A show of goodwill. For our _efforts_.”

Makino's frown deepened, gaze drawn to the Red Line in the distance. Without a cloud in the sky, it was fully visible, the bright red rock looking as impregnable as ever. “That means we have to leave the ship.”

Hancock nodded, although she didn’t look happy at the prospect, even if it was considered an honour to be granted permission to go through the Red Port. Usually, aside from navy officials, only Government ambassadors and royalty were awarded that privilege. “I was assured another would be provided for us,” she said.

Makino nodded absently, already busy cataloguing the information, and making the necessary adjustments in her head. Even with a crew as experienced as theirs, these were unfamiliar waters, and the thought of setting sail with any ship but their own left her uneasy, almost to the point where she considered suggesting they go through Fishman Island anyway.

None of them had ever challenged that ocean, which saw more ships buried than had ever successfully sailed it. And most sailors feared the Calm Belt more than anything, but there was a predictability to that sea, if you had the means to cross it, and to avoid the nesting sea kings. The New World…no one could predict that temper.

Her sigh was short, revealing her frustration, and she felt how her hands twitched, restless and indecisive. “Do we even have a choice in this?” Makino asked.

Hancock just looked at her. “Yes,” she said simply, and that alone said enough; that Hancock could choose to decline her given orders, but in doing so, would renounce her position as Warlord, and the benefits that came with it. They’d be like any other pirate crew; would be outlaws, and prosecuted as such.

And the World Government knew about Amazon Lily; knew how to reach it, and had the means to do so. And they were _all_ considered pirates, every single soul on the island, her daughter included.

“Okay,” Makino said then, with a breath to centre her thoughts, practical to a fault, and she was good at _this_ —at making the best of a situation. “We take as many as we need. The rest will remain with the ship, and send word back to Amazon Lily. If they’ve granted us permission to pass through once, it should be safe to assume it’s a two-way ticket, but we should still leave a safeguard, in case we need them to make the crossing later.”

Hancock nodded. “I will leave it to you to decide who goes with us.”

She didn’t ask if Makino wanted to stay, but then it was already implied that she wouldn’t. She’d accepted her position knowing what came with it; her own sacrifice, for her tribe. She was more than just a mother; had been, ever since the day her daughter had been born and she’d made her choice.

She was _Kuja._

Turning to the crew, Makino was about to speak when she felt it—the prickling at the back of her mind that signalled someone approaching, and she recognised him immediately.

Hancock did, too, and Makino watched the sharp furrow of her brows, like swords clashing, and felt the open hostility in her presence, twice as damning as her expression. And she meant for it to be _felt_ , but the recipient didn’t even flinch as he calmly approached their ship from across the wharf.

Makino watched the tall figure carving smoothly through the navy officers in the port, all of them scrambling to let him pass, parting the ranks like a sea of blue and white, although he hadn’t even lifted a finger, the black greatsword on his back untouched.

Pausing before the ship, he made no move to come aboard, remaining instead on the wharf before the gangway, an almost leisurely consideration in the slow raise of his eyes to their vessel, although his presence left no doubt that his arrival was anything but coincidental.

Makino had felt his inner gaze already before she saw his eyes scanning the deck, and knew who he was looking for a full second before they found her.

Those uncanny eyes met hers, and Makino heard how her breath quickened, while something like dread coiled deep in her gut.

Between breaths, Hancock had put herself between them, forcibly breaking his gaze, although not his focus. “Hawk-Eyes.”

He spared her a fleeting glance; the shortest Makino had ever seen a man give to Hancock. “Boa,” he said simply.

Then he turned his gaze back to Makino, seeming wholly unperturbed by the outrage sparking in Hancock’s presence, and the shock that rippled through the crew behind her at his callous dismissal. Makino had to shut her mouth to keep from gawking.

For his part, Hawk-Eyes seemed heedless of the offence he'd caused, his brows furrowed above his eyes as he watched her, as though he was trying to puzzle something out, although she couldn’t even hope to guess what went on behind that gaze. But she felt his observation physically, as though he wasn’t looking at her face as much as he was looking at _her_ , the person she was within, an examination that felt acutely familiar, even as she was sure she’d never experienced anything like this.

And yet—from somewhere within her rose a sudden impression, of a much warmer gaze, and smiling eyes that had _seen_ her, too.

Startled, Makino blinked it away, and then regretted it a second later, realising it might have been something from her past, although she had no idea why it should resurface now, with this man.

“Approaching any member of my crew is ill advised,” Hancock said then, her voice flinging out, loud across the quiet deck and the busy wharf beyond. It was less of a warning than it was a death sentence.

Hawk-Eyes only shifted his gaze slightly, his expression unmoved, as though he wasn't looking at the woman rumoured to be the most beautiful in the world. “I bear neither you nor your crew any ill will, Pirate Empress,” he said, before looking back at Makino again. “I am here to ask a simple question, nothing more.”

He wasn't being subtle about who he sought, but then Makino doubted he was trying, even as she couldn't fathom what he could possibly want to ask _her_.

Swallowing, she was relieved when her voice didn't waver, as she asked him calmly, “What do you want to know?”

For a moment, Hawk-Eyes just watched her, his eyes narrowed slightly, as though even he wasn’t sure exactly what he was looking for. But, “Your name,” he said then, and she blinked, surprised. “If a formal exchange is acceptable, I am Dracule Mihawk.” His gaze shifted to Hancock, before he added, almost dryly, “Although I suspect you have already been informed of my less than desirable qualities.”

Hancock gave a soft scoff, not a beat missed as she said, “You presume I have either the time or the desire to gossip about the inconsequential men in my acquaintance." She sniffed, "You think highly of yourself.” Then to Makino, her gaze still holding Mihawk’s, “You may add that to the list.”

A ghost of a smile eased the cutting edges of his mouth, there before it was gone, and so quickly Makino wondered for a second if she’d imagined it. And he said nothing else, just continued to watch her, as though waiting for her response.

There was a shrewdness about him, the same she'd felt when their paths had crossed outside the conference room earlier. And she’d heard her own observation described by many as keenly intuitive _,_ trickling through unseen cracks in search for answers, gently compelling but never invasive, and although this wasn’t exactly an invasion, there was no question seeking an answer. Instead, it felt as though he already had the answer, and was looking for evidence to confirm it.

But she found no dark intent in his presence, only honest curiosity, and—something she couldn’t put her finger on, as though he was holding himself back from feeling it.

And she didn’t know what compelled her to reveal it, but, “Makino,” she said, quietly.

His face revealed nothing, not so much as a flicker of recognition in his eyes or the twitch of a single muscle, and yet she had the distinct impression that her name had done _something_.

“My apologies,” Mihawk said then. “When our paths crossed earlier, I thought there was something familiar about you, but I seem to have been mistaken.”

He was lying.

She felt it—the slightest disturbance in his presence, even as his expression let nothing slip to suggest that he wasn’t telling the truth. It was barely nothing, so faint Makino doubted anyone would have caught it. Anyone but her, anyway.

But before she could ask—if she even knew what she _should_ ask—he’d turned to walk away, no second glance offered this time, to either her or Hancock, as though he truly had been mistaken and had resolved to offer neither of them any more of his time, or thoughts.

“The nerve of that man,” Hancock hissed, her teeth bared, and there was a split second where Makino thought she might attack him for his impudence alone. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

But Hancock did nothing, her hands clenched to fists at her sides, and like their orders, there was an awareness in her restraint; the knowledge of what sanctions would come from outright attacking another Warlord on Government soil.

Makino watched the direction Hawk-Eyes had disappeared, stomach still in painful knots. And she should have been as quick as he’d been to dismiss his interest, she knew, but the way he’d looked at her—not as though he'd recognised her, but as though there’d been something that had made him pause…

It was ridiculous. If he’d recognised her, any part of her, he would have said so. Why would he keep it to himself? And she couldn’t even imagine why a man like that should have had anything to do with her, whoever she might have been. There’d been no true recognition there, Makino was sure of that, and so maybe he had been telling the truth, after all. Maybe she just bore a passing resemblance to someone he’d met once, and that was it.

“Bear him no mind,” Hancock said then, drawing her attention back from where it had drifted, to the gaps in her memory that even ten years hadn’t been able to fill. “A man is like a starving animal. To feed his hunger, he will conjure just about any tale to get a woman’s attention.”

“Hime-sama is right,” Marigold agreed. “They call that one the oldest trick in the book.”

Sandersonia furrowed her brows. “There’s a book?”

“Well, I don’t know if there’s a physical copy…”

She was only vaguely listening to what they were saying, although she heard as more of them chimed in, agreeing with Hancock's assessment. But Makino didn't correct their assumptions, saying that she didn’t think that was what he’d come with in mind; that she’d felt desire of the worst sort, and hadn’t detected even a trace of it in his presence.

She looked at Hancock, brows dipping with a frown as she watched her observing the shore where Hawk-Eyes had vanished. Because Hancock _knew_. Hancock, better than perhaps anyone, knew how to recognise that kind of intent; to see it for what it was. She would have realised that it wasn’t what Hawk-Eyes had come looking for.

But going by the deep furrow between her brows, she probably had, and that was the most infuriating part, Makino suspected; at least for Hancock. Men were easier to explain if their behaviour conformed to your expectations, and whatever preconceived notions informed them. Hawk-Eyes…

She couldn’t explain Hawk-Eyes.

With a deep breath, she willed her shoulders to unclench from where they’d seized up at his arrival, forcing her thoughts onto a different path, even as she couldn’t quite shake the impression he’d left; the sense that there was more to their exchange than a simple misconception. But she couldn’t let it distract her. Not now, when they had more pressing matters to deal with.

She looked towards the Red Line in the distance, imagining the sea on the other side. The New World, which really did seem like a whole other world in itself. Makino had no idea what awaited them there, or how long they’d be gone. If they’d even make it back.

She felt homesick then, and fiercely. She missed the simple comforts of the things she knew; her daily routines, and her house, the one that had been hers so long it really felt like that now. And she missed her little girl, the heart of it all—the one who’d made it a _home_ , with her endearing clutter, and contagious smiles.

Thinking about her helped anchor her fleeting uncertainties, allowing her breaths to come a bit easier as she considered what lay before them, tuning out everything but her heart, its slow, steady beats like the gentle rocking of the ship beneath her.

She would send word back to Amazon Lily of their change of plans, and hope their mission would be concluded swiftly and without any unnecessary delays. The less time they had to spend on that sea the better, although it wasn't the prospect of being away from her daughter that worried her. Theirs was a community, and Rowan was in good hands—was adored, and cared for, and had more aunts than she could count to keep her company. She was fiercely self-sufficient, and not likely to flinch at a little separation. Makino didn't doubt she'd be fine without her.

Because if there was one thing that anchored her heart, beyond the firm knowledge that she was safe and protected on Amazon Lily, it was the unshakeable certainty that her daughter could take care of herself.

 

—

 

She was enjoying her morning cup of tea when Sorrel barged into the tavern, looking distinctly ruffled, although Kikyo figured that was to be expected of a woman whose job consisted mostly of training their youngest girls, which was only a little less hazardous than taming a nest of wild, venomous snakes.

“Oh my,” Aster hummed, her good eye flicking up from the newspaper she’d been reading. “Such vigour, and it’s not even noon.” She looked to Kikyo with a knowing smile. “Shall we guess which hatchling is the reason?”

Striding up to the long table where Kikyo was seated, “You’re the favourite,” Sorrel announced without preamble, and Kikyo blinked. “And I’m at the end of my rope with that girl. I’ve been looking for her all morning, but I can’t find her anywhere. Figured if anyone could coax her out of hiding, it would be you.”

Kikyo frowned, putting her cup down. “Have you checked the rookery? Sometimes she'll climb up to talk to the hawks." She was the one who named the eyas when they hatched. No matter the bird, her choices were always a curious fit.

“Twice,” Sorrel said, crossing her arms. “Along with the wharf, and the palace gardens. I've checked all her usual haunts, but it’s like she’s vanished into thin air.” She shook her head, her sigh a huff of honest frustration. “She likes to give me a hard time, but this is excessive, even for Rowan.”

The note of genuine worry in her tone was what did it, as Kikyo rose from her seat. “I’ll help you look.” Turning to Aster, “If she stops by, keep her occupied until we come back?”

Her mouth tilted in a knowing smile, tugging at the scar across her lip as Aster waved them off. “Shouldn’t be too hard. She’ll sit still if there’s a tale to be told, and I have enough of those to feed that hungry little heart.”

Kikyo bowed, before moving to follow Sorrel outside, ignoring the coil of worry that had cinched together at the bottom of her stomach, a familiar protectiveness having reared up before her better judgement could reason it into submission, but then there was precious little room for reason when it came to love, as she’d long since discovered. Most notably, the first time she'd held a squalling, red-haired infant, the littlest thing she'd ever seen besides her mother, and had thought, mesmerised, that the mermaid princess herself couldn't have stolen her attention away.

Still, she wasn’t prone to jumping to conclusions, or for overreacting at nothing, even if it _was_ Rowan. She'd probably just hidden herself away. As much as the girl boasted a near untouchable cheer, Kikyo knew she missed her mother. It was probably nothing more than that.

They entered into the busy heart of the street, the beating pulse of noise and movement greeting them, along with the women passing by. It was still early in the day, which left them with several options. She was too smart to venture outside the mountain's heart after dark, but at least while the sun was up, there were a number of places she could have gone.

Kikyo did a quick survey of the rooftops, but there was no sign of the little shape she was looking for, perched above the milling crowd as she sorted through the people passing below, the way she sometimes liked to do.

“Did you check their house?” she asked Sorrel, who was watching the street.

She got a nod, as Sorrel said, “First thing, but she’d already left. Bed was put away and everything. An early bird, that one, like her mother.”

Kikyo’s frown deepened. “She’d put the bedding away?” Early bird or not, that didn’t sound like her. Kikyo knew for a fact that she skimped on her chores whenever her mother was away.

She saw as Sorrel’s brows furrowed, bunching above her eyes. “What are you thinking?”

Kikyo didn’t answer, just took the lead, but Sorrel didn’t protest as she moved to follow.

It was a short walk from Gorgon’s to Makino’s home, and they arrived to find it empty, although Kikyo had already expected that to be the case.

It was neatly kept, but then that was Makino, everything carefully organised, although still bearing the tender signs of being a shared home, two well-worn cushions by the low table, and a child’s treasures scattered about—a trove of pretty seashells lining the windowsill and every available shelf, stowed among her mother's humble collection of books, along with an old sailor's monocular and an eternal pose whose destination had been scrubbed away by the sea. A tiny, rogue sandal lay discarded by the entrance, its partner missing like its owner.

At first glance, nothing seemed out of place. If anything, it looked tidier than Kikyo had expected it to be, as though the girl had made a conscious effort for it to be that. Odd, with her mother still a few days from returning home.

Frowning, her eyes were drawn to a slip of paper tucked between the pages of the book left open on the table. It was an old, much-loved picture book, displaying an assortment of ships, along with their descriptions and cross-sections, the well-thumbed pages faded and curling at the corners. Kikyo knew it by heart, from endless readings, and the little girl who'd never grown tired of it.

Slipping the paper free of its confines, she unfolded it, finding familiar, child-like letters in a cheerful scrawl:

> _MAMA,_
> 
> _GONE TO SAIL THE WORLD :) BACK IN A FEW WEEKS._
> 
> _ROWAN ⚓_
> 
> _(PS: PLEASE DON’T BE MAD)_

At the bottom of the note had been doodled a ship, along with a smiling figure with red hair, and a little snake.

“Oh, no," she breathed.

“What?” Sorrel asked, and when Kikyo wordlessly handed her the note, spat, " _Shit_." Then, "Wait, how would she even—” But she seemed to have her answer a moment later, as she groaned. “Oh, but of course she would. She knew that ship’s schedule in her _sleep_.”

Turning the note over, she read it again, shaking her head as she did, as though in disbelief, before she looked up at Kikyo. “What the hell do we tell Makino?”

Kikyo didn’t answer—didn’t have one to give, barely able to wrap her head around their current predicament, and that she’d _left_. That in their foolish inattention, they’d let her.

“She could have gone anywhere,” Sorrel continued. She'd begun pacing, the note crumbling between her fingers. “Of all the thoughtless, _harebrained_ —” Cutting herself off, she rounded on Kikyo. “Why? A few more years and she would have been free to leave if she wanted. Why _now_? Just to see the world?”

Taking the crumbled note from her, Kikyo read it again, the happy scrawl that seemed to carry her voice, remembering the girl with her toothy smile, and her hundred questions.

 _Auntie_ , she’d asked once, carefully, in the way that announced an ulterior motive even without the poorly concealed interest on her face. _When you have sex to make a baby, how does it decide what the baby will look like?_

 _Sex doesn’t decide that,_ Kikyo had answered, amused. _That’s genetics_. _And chance_.

_Chance? Like a lottery?_

_Hm, yes,_ she’d agreed, her gaze lingering a moment on her hair, taking in the colour; that bright, cheerful red.  _Although there is a limited amount of variations, depending on parentage, and genes. Some are naturally stronger than others. You have your mother’s eyes. The odds that they would have been blue or green are small, although not impossible. But the stronger genes usually win out._

_So it’s more like a fight?_

She’d laughed at that. _In a way, I suppose. And like in a battle, there is always an element of chance. You can’t always predict the outcome._

_Not even mama?_

_No_ , she’d hummed. _Not even your mother, strong as she is._

_So she didn’t decide?_

Kikyo remembered touching her head, recognising what she was really asking about.  _There are some things in this world that are not up to us. But she was happy, I know. About every part of you._

_Not just the ones I got from her?_

_No,_ she'd said, and had given a playful tug at a lock of her hair to emphasise her point.  _All of them._

Rowan had grinned, seeming content with that answer, and Kikyo had forgotten the matter. Until now, staring down at the note and realising with a sinking heart that among the hundred questions the girl always had at the ready, there was only one question strong enough to prompt her to take such drastic measures to find the answer.

She’d suspected it for a long time—the truth about the girl’s parentage. Ever since that newspaper article about the pirate who’d destroyed the auction house on Sabaody. And she’d only had her suspicions confirmed when Rowan had been born. The bright red hair, which couldn’t be a coincidence.

She’d never told Makino of her suspicions; hadn’t known if voicing them would have prompted her to seek him out, to pull at that thread in order to see what it might unravel. And Kikyo thought she would have tried. That however steady that heart, it had never grown content here, in this soil. It was a fiercely _wanting_ heart, even if she wasn’t naturally inclined to pursue it; to look for the answers Kikyo knew she so desperately wanted, about the person she’d been, and the life she’d forgotten. The father of the little girl she loved more than anything.

And maybe it had been selfish, keeping it from her, knowing how Makino might have reacted; fearing that she might have wished to leave if she knew, and even more than that—fearing that the knowledge might have doomed her to a worse fate than the one she’d narrowly escaped on Sabaody.

Kikyo didn’t know Red-Hair. All she knew was what the sea said about him, and the newspapers, and neither of those character portraits were particularly reassuring. And she’d _seen_ what he was capable of; had seen the pile of rubble he’d left of that auction house, heedless of the repercussions, and reckless to the point where she had to wonder if she hadn’t been correct in her assumption—that it had been outrage at a lost possession that had prompted him to react in such a way, with unchecked violence.

And if that was what Makino had been to him—if that was what the anchor around her neck signified, someone’s _possession_ —there was no way Kikyo would let him reclaim her. Men were possessive creatures, prone to avarice, and in the ten years that had passed since the auction house he’d done nothing but confirm it, as the world had witnessed the power that had laid one fourth of the New World at his feet; that had made him _Emperor_.

Red-Hair was one of the strongest pirates in the world, and no man with that much power was _kind_. If the world had taught her anything, it was that.

But of course she wouldn’t see it that way, the girl who’d only ever looked at that world with wonder. The one who’d fancied her father a hero, and a king.

“No,” Kikyo said, fingers gripping the note so hard her knuckles bled white, as she looked at Sorrel, feeling for the first time in over a decade the cold grip of genuine _fear_.

“I know what she’s looking for.”

 

—

 

“So,” Rowan said, observing the busy street. “I, uh, could have planned this better.”

Ceto said nothing, having decided to convey her dislike of the situation through a very loud silence. But it was working—Rowan felt her agreement in the restless twitch of her tail against her neck, her irritation as evident as if she’d screeched it.

She was hiding inside her hood, pulled over her hair, partly to conceal it, and partly to conceal Ceto. She’d gathered pretty quickly that people outside of Amazon Lily didn’t walk around with snakes hanging off them, and she didn’t need to draw any unnecessary attention to herself, at least not any more than she’d already managed just by walking alone. She’d caught a few gazes fleeting her way earlier. One nosy woman had even asked where her parents were.

But it could be worse, and lack of a proper plan aside, her adventure was off to a fairly good start. Her aunts hadn’t noticed her stowing away, and at the first island they’d docked, hadn’t caught her sneaking off the ship, hiding herself among the crates in the port as they’d gone about their business, cheerfully oblivious to the point where Rowan had been sorely tempted to just leap out and shout ‘I’m here!’, just for the pleasure of surprising them.

But she'd imagined their reactions once the shock wore off, and there would have been no way she could have convinced them not take her straight back to Amazon Lily. But even knowing that, there’d been a single second where she’d hesitated, standing on the wharf between the ship she’d left and the port town behind her, and beyond that, the Grand Line. She’d thought about her mother, somewhere on that same sea, guilt snaring around her insides as she thought of her coming home and finding her gone.

She’d made sure their house looked nice before she’d left. She’d cleaned all the dishes, and put away the bedding. She could be responsible, and hoped her mother would remember that, when she started worrying.

She looked out over the street again, her hood shielding her eyes from the sun as they followed the brick-laid path where it climbed up the steep cliff from the shore. It ran like a vein through the town, meandering between the thick clusters of colourful houses that had been heaped onto the hillside, only to fan out in a wide stone wharf. There were more ships docked than there seemed to be space to moor them, and she’d been so distracted by the sight of them that she’d almost forgotten what she'd even come there for, wanting to look at them all—to catalogue them, type and make, and to learn their names and their crews and where they were going. She couldn’t believe there were so many in one place!

The town itself was called Halfway-Into-Hell, because the island it was on straddled the Calm Belt. Rowan loved the story—there’d once been two ports, one in either sea, but only the port on the Grand Line side remained; the other had been destroyed years ago by a vicious sea king, rising out of the water to shatter the whole town, killing everyone who lived there. No one had dared settle on that side ever since, but the Grand Line side was a different matter, and she'd wanted to see it ever since she'd first heard about it.

It was a popular port of call for smugglers and pirates, and the streets were overrunning with people, vendors and locals and rich-clad merchants, and sailors killing time before their next departure. Rowan knew all there was to know about it; had asked all the questions she could that hadn’t seemed too suspicious, but her aunts’ descriptions were nothing compared to seeing it for herself.

There was just so much to see that was _different,_ so many people, and so many of them _men_. She’d never seen a man before outside the newspaper, but here they were everywhere.

Of course, the novelty had worn off pretty quickly—they weren’t _that_ different—but it all just added to the whole experience of being there, and seeing it all; to stand in the middle of the tumult and take it all in, just a tiny piece of the world she didn’t know, but that she was now free to discover.

 _We shouldn’t have left the ship,_ Ceto murmured, feeling none of the same thrill. _They’ll have moved on to the next island by now._

“Exactly,” Rowan chirped, grin widening as she looked at all the people walking past, most of them barely offering her a passing glance. It wasn't like home, where everyone knew each other. No one here knew who she was, or where she came from. It was _exhilarating_. “And since there’s nothing we can do about that, we’ve got no choice but to go forward.”

_That’s not what I meant!_

“I know what you meant,” Rowan said, gentler this time. “But I’m trying not to freak out here. And you’re not really helping.”

 _You should be freaking out,_ Ceto hissed. _We don’t know this place, and you have no plan_ —

“Then I’ll make one,” Rowan cut her off gently, reaching up to stroke a fingertip along her tail where it curled, the tip twitching nervously. “I’ll take care of it, okay? Don’t worry.”

She was mindful to keep her voice down. Everyone back home were used to her talking loudly with Ceto, but she didn’t know how these people would take it. She’d been careless earlier, and had answered a little too loudly, which had drawn more than one suspicious glance.

She needed to be more careful.

“Okay,” she said, with a breath. She’d already known she couldn’t plan for everything, that she would have to play most of it by ear, but she was good at thinking on her feet. “Here’s what we’ll do. We need to find out if there are any ships going to Sabaody, and then once we do, we’ll hitch a ride. We’ve already stowed away once, so this should be a piece of cake.”

_And if they catch us?_

It wasn’t a question asked out of genuine curiosity, but rather to prove a point, Rowan knew. And she knew what Ceto was thinking—that if they were caught now, it wouldn’t be the same as if they’d gotten caught on their way over from Amazon Lily. Her aunts would have been angry, but she would have gotten away with a scolding, and then being grounded once they told her mother. But if they were caught stowing away on an unfamiliar ship, they might sooner throw them both overboard than bother with a scolding.

“They won’t,” Rowan promised, swallowing down the flicker of uncertainty before it could claim her. “I’ll make sure.”

Ceto wasn't so easily persuaded, but then Rowan hadn’t expected her to be. But she didn’t protest further, seeming to have accepted that if she hadn’t been able to change her mind yet, it wasn’t going to happen.

She felt a little guilty about it, but she couldn’t let herself be talked out of this, or allow herself to be overwhelmed. Not now, when she’d already come so far.

Of course, even if she managed to keep her head cool, there was still the small matter of how she was supposed to get to the New World. That’s where all the Emperors were, and if she wanted to find Red-Hair, that’s where she needed to go, and quickly, if she wanted to make it back in time to catch the ship back to Amazon Lily. If she couldn’t convince him to take her, that was. She hadn’t entirely ruled out that possibility.

And maybe seeing him would change her mother’s mind. Rowan couldn’t help but hope it might. If Red-Hair really was her father, she didn’t know why her mother had kept it a secret, but maybe if they met again, it wouldn’t have to be anymore.

She'd cross that bridge when she got there. First, she had to get to the New World. Auntie Kikyo had explained that you could go under the sea through Fishman Island, and to get there you had to go to someplace called Sabaody. But a lot of ships went there, Rowan had been told, and so all she needed was to find one that did. The rest would fall into place later. Probably.

But right now she had a more pressing issue demanding her attention.

As though in cheerful agreement, her stomach groaned loudly, the sound drawing more than one pair of eyes from the people passing by.

“I’m so _hungry_.”

Ceto’s agreement was silent, but Rowan didn’t need it to know she was feeling it, too. They hadn’t eaten since before leaving Amazon Lily. Stealing food from the galley hadn’t been as easy as she’d thought it would be, and they’d spent the whole voyage hiding belowdecks, until she'd been so hungry it had felt like her stomach would start eating itself, but she’d bit her teeth and willed herself through it, certain that once they reached land, they’d find something to eat.

But she'd only brought _gor_ with her, the little she’d managed to scrape together doing odd chores at the tavern, and the one vendor she’d given it as payment had only turned it over in his hand, confused, before he’d chased her off, shouting that he’d take the belt to her if she ever tried to con him again.

She’d kept a careful distance from the market stalls after that. But she needed energy to keep herself alert and her mind clear, and for that she needed to eat. And to eat she needed the right currency, and to get the right _currency_ —

“I’m going to do it,” Rowan said, with a decisive breath.

Sensing what was coming, Ceto hissed,  _No_ —

“I’m gonna steal a wallet.”

She heard the groan within her, and grinned. “Don’t worry. I’ll just steal enough for us to get something to eat.”

_That’s still stealing!_

Rowan brushed her off, turning her attention back to the street ahead, and the people walking past. Her best option was to slip a few coins out of an open pocket, preferably without anyone spotting her and reporting her to the authorities. But she hadn’t seen any marines the whole time she’d been ashore, which was encouraging.

She needed someone who wasn’t paying attention, someone who wouldn’t notice a little girl, or if they did, wouldn’t think twice about her. She needed—

“There,” Rowan said, gaze having latched on to a prospective target.

He was seated on a nearby bench, slumped over. At first she thought he might have passed out or died, but as she got closer she could hear him snoring loudly. He must have fallen asleep.

 _Perfect_. She did a quick survey of the street, before zeroing in on the man. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, which seemed odd, but then maybe that was normal where he came from. She didn’t know how men usually dressed, anyway.

She noticed he was wearing an ugly orange hat, and for a second, considered finding someone else, wondering if he might not have that much on him. If he didn’t have enough to clothe himself properly and had had to get the little he wore from someone’s garbage, there wouldn’t be much for her to pilfer but pocket lint. Maybe not even that.

 _He’s not even fully dressed_ , Ceto said, as though she'd been thinking the same. _What if you take the last he has?_

“Yeah,” Rowan murmured. “I feel like we should be giving him money instead. Let him buy a shirt, at least.”

She eyed the sleeping man—saw that he had thick clusters of freckles on his arms and shoulders, like she did, and upon closer inspection, noticed that he had several tattoos, although they were nothing like the ones her aunts back home had. There was a big one on his back that she couldn’t fully make out from where she was standing, and four letters down his bicep, with a big cross over the ‘S’, like he’d misspelled it. His other arm was covered in flowers; she saw the big, pink hibiscus above his elbow, but didn't recognise the others. Whatever kind they were, they didn't have them on Amazon Lily.

“He has a log pose,” Rowan said, noticing the little glass globe around his wrist. “He’s probably a sailor.” He was carrying a weapon, too; a dagger in a sheath on his hip. And his presence…

She swallowed thickly, and clenched her hands together to keep them from shaking.

Not just a common sailor, then.

Something in her hesitated, watching him, but another glance at the street and the people frowning at her made her decision. She needed to eat, and she needed somewhere to lay low. Right now, he was her best bet towards achieving the first. And he _was_ sleeping pretty heavily. He probably wouldn’t even notice.

She inched closer, mindful not to draw attention to herself or to what she was up to, keeping her breathing even and her movements calm; casual, as though she was just walking past.

Carefully, she sidled up to the bench where he was sitting. His snores were louder up close, and she drew some courage from that as she stole a glance over her shoulder, making sure no one was looking, before she made to discreetly reach towards the pocket in his shorts. The perfect place to keep a wallet.

 _Don’t do it_ , Ceto pleaded, but Rowan ignored her, refusing to be distracted. She felt her heart in her mouth, and her chest ached from holding her breath, but she didn’t allow her concentration to stutter as she slipped her fingers under the flap to lift it, keeping her focus divided between her objective and the man’s snores. Just a little further—

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

A hand clamped around her wrist before she’d even realised he was the one who’d spoken, and she jumped, eyes flying to his face, only to find him awake and alert and looking right at her. The brim of his hat shaded his features, but she saw that he had a sharp nose and dark eyes, his cheeks as thickly freckled as hers were, but beneath them, there wasn’t even a hint of surprise in his expression.

He’d tricked her, she realised abruptly. He must have sensed her coming, and feigned being asleep.

“I’ll give you this, kid,” he said then, with a laugh that sounded startlingly genuine, although he didn’t let go of her wrist. “You’re better than the last guy who tried to rob me. At least you didn’t try to shiv me first.”

He was smiling, the slant of his mouth holding amusement, which Rowan felt was worse, somehow. Anger would have been better, or at least she would have known how to handle that. An angry opponent was an easily distracted opponent, but this one didn’t even look mildly inconvenienced.

The hand around her wrist was warm—almost _too_ warm, even if his grip wasn’t hurting her, but looking at it, fear leaped in her chest, realising she’d been _caught,_ and in her panic she didn’t think as she made to yank her wrist loose, nearly throwing herself backwards in the process.

She felt as her hood slipped off, even as she hadn’t managed to pull herself free of his grip, but it didn’t properly register before she saw his brows furrowing, as his gaze fixed on her hair.

His eyes found hers then, and she knew they had to be wide with fear. And she couldn’t move, suddenly frozen as she watched something passing across his face, his frown deepening, even as she couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

She watched his gaze as it dropped lower, to Ceto where she lay curled around her neck, and Rowan felt her startling, her tail tugging at the thin chain of her mother’s anchor, and she saw how it seized the stranger’s attention.

His eyes shot back to her face, shock written across his whole expression now, plain as anything, and she heard how his breath rushed out of him and had no idea why, but she didn’t care.

She acted before she could think.

She channelled as much haki as she could muster, putting her whole weight behind it as she threw herself backwards, yanking his arm forward and the rest of him off the bench as she drove the heel of her foot right between his ribs.

He bent over with an oath, gasping for air, and in the fraction of a second his fingers loosened around her wrist, she’d pulled free and bolted down the street.

Her heart was in her throat like she was about to throw it up, genuine panic urging her forward, so fast she nearly tripped over her feet as she ran, and _pirate_ , she thought, suddenly, unshakeably certain of that fact. She’d tried to pickpocket a _pirate_!

She heard his voice as he called after her, but didn’t pause to look back—“Hey! _Wait!_ ”

She felt as he gave chase, but didn’t allow her panic to claim her, to make her hesitate for even a single breath as she shoved through the crowd of people, not caring if she drew attention to herself now, as long as she could lose herself among them quickly.

She ran so fast she tasted blood, her lungs screaming as she pushed her legs to carry her forward, the rush of air dragging tears from her eyes as she hurtled down the steeply sloping street, Ceto clinging to her neck so tightly she almost cut off her air. And she wasn’t thinking about where she was going, fear shoving up her throat behind her heart, pounding in her head, in her whole body, the sound blocking out everything else but the need to get away, and to get away _fast_.

But she would; Rowan was certain of that. She was one of the fastest in her whole tribe, and she’d outrun beasts and palace guards and even Master Sorrel.

She could outrun _one_ pirate.

 

—

 

It didn’t take them long to make the arrangements for their crossing into the New World.

They’d sent word back to Amazon Lily, and with Hancock unwilling to waste time waiting for a response, had gone ahead with their plan, leaving the ship docked on the Paradise side of the Red Port, along with half their crew, barring those Makino had selected for the mission.

The navy had kept their word, and they’d been allowed to pass without trouble, although the Gates of Justice paled in comparison when it came to the sheer amount of willpower it took not to clench her shoulders in anticipation of a bullet, the slow, almost lethargic pace of the bondolas nearly unbearable, until she’d felt ready to empty her stomach right where she stood. Makino thought she might have preferred crossing under the ocean.

But then they were on the other side, a ship ready and waiting for them, the transition from one side to the other having happened so fast, it left her momentarily reeling, suddenly faced with what they’d done—the sheer magnitude of it, crossing the Red Line, which so few ever succeeded in doing.

And standing on the wharf, the New World hadn’t looked much different than the sea they’d left. The weather had been mostly the same, but aside from the water looking a bit more restless, it hadn’t felt like a different sea. Not at first, anyway.

It hadn’t taken long for Makino to realise the error of her first impression, when, not three days into their voyage, they’d been hit by a freak storm so volatile and so  _vindictive,_ it had felt less like a sudden and unexpected turn of the weather and more like a personal grudge. And on an unfamiliar ship and without the Yuda to aid them, they’d been at a woeful disadvantage, as the waves had pulled and shoved them whichever way the sea pleased, until they’d had no choice but to cling to their lifelines and ride out the worst of it. And for two days they'd held it off, before they'd been forced to concede and seek shelter.

They’d been lucky to escape with their lives, their vessel barely holding itself together, and they’d sought refuge on the first island they’d found, thrown completely off their course but with no time to spare the fact that they had no idea what kind of island it was, or in whose territory, with the hold filling up with water.

“This almost makes me miss the sea kings,” Makino murmured, observing the gaping hole in the hull from where she stood on the shore, the solid, unmoving ground under her feet such a desperate welcome, she thought she might have sunk to her knees from the relief.

But other than an upset stomach, she'd escaped without a scratch. In comparison, the ship was lilting precariously, half submerged in the shallows where they’d disembarked. It was a small miracle they’d even reached shore before it had come apart beneath them.

On the sea beyond, the storm was still raging. She could see the sky weighed down, heavy and black, the thick, bulging clouds roiling like the bowels of a small god, and waves the size of mountains promising a swift, brutal end to whatever ships were foolish enough to try climbing them.

Watching them, Makino felt as her stomach turned over, and pressed her lips together to keep the bile from nudging up her throat at the memory.

“With limited supplies, it will take at least a week to fix it,” Rindo announced, drawing her attention back to the ship. Her expression remained as unflappable as ever, even as she mused, “And that’s if we’re being optimistic.”

As though to suggest why they shouldn’t be, she peered over her shoulder at the island behind them.

They’d gathered on the very edge of the shore, at a good distance from the thick, menacingly crooked trees of the forest that stretched inland to cover the whole island, a jungle so dense she could feel it in her mind, like a living, breathing entity. But the island itself appeared uninhabited, at least at first glance, and there were no man-made structures as far as Makino could see. There was no visible wharf, or anything that suggested anyone had ever set foot on it.

The local wildlife might be part of the reason, and she’d heard rumours about some of the islands found in the New World, which seemed to resist human intervention, but wildlife they could deal with. They were all of them experienced hunters, and Amazon Lily boasted its share of dangers, both in terms of flora and fauna. As long as that was all they might encounter, they shouldn’t have too much trouble, even if they had to stay here a whole week.

But even thinking it, she felt the forest; the almost authoritative silence, and the unseen eyes peering back through her mind.

“I’d rather be optimistic,” Makino said, turning back to the ship. If possible, it looked even worse than before. She heard the warning groan of the timbers as it canted sideways, looking a single gust of wind from just toppling into the shallow water.

“Watching it will fix nothing,” Hancock spoke up then, the lash of her voice jolting the uneasy quiet. As undaunted by the situation as she was by the seawater that had ruined her silks, she looked towards the forest, as though staring it down could somehow compel it to bring them what they needed, although there wasn’t so much as a skitter in the bushes as she said, “We need materials, and firewood.”

Makino nodded, busy wringing the remaining water from her braid. Her clothes had mostly dried, but the air carried the promise of rain, and then there was the storm they’d narrowly escaped, which might any moment decide to follow them ashore. They’d do well to seek shelter further inland.

“We should make camp,” she said, following Hancock’s gaze towards the treeline, before lifting her eyes to the overcast sky. They had a few hours of daylight left, but they were all tired, and they should at least try scope out the surrounding area, if only to give them some advantage against whatever might come crawling out of the forest after nightfall.

As it were, they weren’t given the luxury of waiting that long.

“Commander,” Marigold said, quietly.

Makino pressed her lips together, gaze trained on the foliage, still undisturbed, but her senses told her what her eyes couldn’t. “I feel them.”

It was faint, meaning they were far inland. At least a few miles, and she had to concentrate to pick out their individual presences at that distance. But they were human, of that she was sure. A single crew or a group of settlers, she thought, and that alone might not have made her pause, but—

 _Power_. She felt it even at a distance, enough that it shuddered loose the breath she’d been holding, and she opened her eyes from where she’d kept them shut, seeing within herself.

“How many?” Hancock asked simply. She was still watching the forest, although her expression revealed a rare wariness that told Makino she wasn't the only one who’d sensed the magnitude of that presence.

Makino swallowed, closing her eyes again as she concentrated on reaching beyond herself, far into the forest as she felt it in her mind. “They’re too far away for me to say for certain, but there are more of them than there are of us.” Three times as many, at the very least.

She tried to throw out her senses further, even as she felt the strain, as though trying to grab something just out of reach. Like a muscle cramping, although mentally rather than physically, it took conscious effort to extend herself that far. They were shadows in her mind, their numbers still uncertain, but she felt them.

And one presence stood out, stronger than the rest—that single source of power, bright as a sunburst behind her eyelids. It was the only one she could single out at that distance, but it didn’t bring assurance as much as the opposite. Someone that strong wasn’t just a regular settler.

“What should we do?” Sandersonia asked. “Do we wait and hope they don’t notice we’re here?”

“If we have sensed them,” Makino said, feeling out that bright presence, the one that sat like a fixed point in her mind now, that left a strange shiver along the back of her neck, before she opened her eyes to look at Hancock. “It’s likely they'll have sensed us, too.” Someone _that_ strong would have, she was certain.

Hancock hadn’t taken her eyes off the treeline, but Makino knew she was thinking the same thing she was.

They didn’t have a functioning ship on which to escape. They were effectively land-bound until they had a chance to fix it, and they couldn’t be so naive as to hope that they’d leave them be in the meantime, if they knew they were there. And if they were men and they stumbled upon them first, they might easily jump to the conclusion that they’d be an easy target; a stranded crew made up only of women.

But if they could act preemptively, they might stand a chance. Even outnumbered, if they went on the offensive, it might deter them, or at the very least, make them think twice about attacking. Their reputation might even be enough to make them steer clear altogether. _The Gorgon’s curse._

“We intercept them,” Makino said, turning to the others, who were all watching her intently. They were thirty in total, all armed and proficient in haki, and if the reputation of the Kuja didn’t do it, the sight of them might.

Hancock watched her for a beat, before she gave a single, sharp nod, and Makino turned towards the treeline, her eyes open now, observing the sea mist creeping between the trees into the forest, feeling that one bright point in her mind, the sheer force of it leaving her hands shaking, as she tried her best to keep her heart from sinking, wondering what kind of person could boast such a presence, even on this sea.

“And if we’re lucky, maybe they’ll see the wisdom of keeping their distance.”

 

—

 

“This might not have been your wisest decision,” Ben said, peering up at the canopy.

Shanks followed his gaze upwards, along the trunks of the colossal trees to where the top branches gathered in a thick cluster, blocking out the sky. It had only grown thicker the deeper in they’d gone, until there wasn't even a sliver left visible. Add that to the ominous mist creeping around his ankles, it wasn’t exactly an invitation to proceed.

“Maybe not,” he conceded, with what he hoped was more optimism than he felt at present. “But it was either this, or take our chances with the storm.” He gestured to the forest around them, which seemed somehow to stare _back._ “And nothing’s attacked us yet.”

“Yet,” Ben agreed, with a wary glance behind them. The others were following, carrying kegs and supplies—and a parasol, which was optimistic even by Shanks’ standards. But honestly, they’d made camp in worse places than this. Probably.

Ben didn’t offer any more protests, although Shanks knew why he’d been hesitant to disembark, or even to approach the island to begin with. This wasn’t technically part of their territory, although from the looks of things, the island was unclaimed. Either that, or the others hadn’t done a very good job marking it, although Whitebeard rarely bothered with the unpopulated islands, and the distinct lack of terrified minions ruled out Big Mom. And Kaidou had different ambitions these days than claiming territory for himself.

Well, then. Might as well be one of Shanks’.

They made camp in the first available clearing, a fey circle of trees that saw at least three members of his crew crossing themselves for good measure, but at least the mist didn't reach this far in, a safe distance from the sea, and the shore where they’d moored Red Force. His ship could withstand the worst the New World had to offer, but at least this way they could wait out the storm in relative comfort, instead of spending it seasick out of their wits belowdecks.

As though in agreement, “Say whatever you want about wisdom, Ben, but this beats the merry-fucking-go-round of projectile vomiting we had to suffer through last time we got caught in a storm like this,” Yasopp said, depositing his duffle where some of the others were putting together a campfire. “Good times were _not_ had by all.”

Lucky had already taken a seat, and shuffled to the side to make room for Shanks, which he accepted with a smile, although declined the offer of food that came with it.

Observing him eating, Yasopp just shook his head. "Only you could muster an appetite after that ride, Lucky. Christ."

Smile slanting in a wry tilt, Shanks silently agreed. Over twenty-five years on the sea, and it took a lot for him to get even mildly seasick, but even he wasn't immune. Or craving roasted meat after having his insides turned over three times and then sideways.

Ben lit himself a cigarette, seeming content with his usual vice and in no hurry to follow Lucky's example, although his outward calm was betrayed by the wary gaze he kept on the surrounding forest, even as the others seemed to have shaken off their initial unease.

The air was tellingly damp, promising rain, although the thick cover of the canopy would shield them from the worst of it, Shanks hoped, as he settled down by the fire. Someone broke open one of the kegs to a chorus of approving cheers, and the dismal weather had no more luck than the creepy forest in keeping their spirits down, even as his own were elusive.

“Here you go, Boss!” Someone pushed a tankard into his hand, and he raised it in silent acknowledgement, although didn’t lift it to his lips. But it was a formality rather than a forgetful act; no one in his crew were ignorant of why it went untouched. And Shanks couldn’t remember the last time he'd drunk for the love of it and not to forget, although it had been years since it had been so bad it had been nearly all he’d done. There were still gaps in his memory from that time, of days spent in his bunk, drunk out of his wits, although he doubted the others had forgotten—not the drinking, or Shanks being so sick from it he hadn’t been able to stand up.

Now, he drank rarely, and sparingly. He’d just lost the taste for it, after those terrible middle years after he’d become Emperor and it had started to dawn on him that he might never find them. That he probably never would.

It had taken him years to come back from that, like dragging himself back from the abyss. It had taken time to learn to live again, to want to keep living, and to keep searching; to remind himself that he hadn’t given up, and that he wouldn’t, not until he had answers—to what had happened to her, and their daughter.

He still didn’t know, and it killed a little piece of him, every day that passed and he couldn’t even give them a place to rest.

He put the tankard down, and reached instead for the worn slip of fabric wrapped around the sword on his hip, the contact anchoring in a way few things were now that he wasn't drinking anymore. But he didn’t want to forget now, he wanted to _remember_ , but it had been ten years, and like the fading colours of Makino's kerchief, his memories of her weren't what they'd once been. He still remembered the little things, hadn't forgotten the hundred little details and intimacies that had made her who she was, but he couldn’t envision them anymore. He remembered the way she’d mouth the words to herself as she read, but couldn’t picture the soft purse of her lips as she did, or the smile they'd shape; could only remember that it had been lovely, and that he'd loved startling it into existence. He remembered the way she’d rise up on her toes to kiss him, that she’d done it once in just her nightdress and his cloak, but he couldn’t remember how she’d looked that night, or the way she’d looked at him; could only remember how it had made him feel. The happiest he’d ever been.

He remembered that he’d loved touching her, but couldn’t reconstruct the shape of her body, or how she'd felt; remembered she’d been tiny, her shoulders a perfect fit for his palms and that he could span her waist with his hands easily, back when he'd had two. She’d had pale freckles, and gentle callouses, and curled to a fist, her hand had been small enough for him to cover whole with his fingers. He remembered that her skin had been softer than anything, but even knowing that, he couldn’t recall what touching her had been like, as though his fingers had forgotten how she’d felt beneath them.

And if the image of her eluded him, his daughter’s was even further out of reach. And he’d begged Shyarly again and again, but a second-hand description wasn’t enough; wasn’t the same as seeing her with his own eyes, or being able to touch her, and hold her. He knew she had red hair, but didn’t know if it was like his, or like Makino’s. He knew she had her mother’s eyes, but didn’t know if they were the same shape, or more like his; didn’t know if she looked more like him, or her, or both of them.

He didn’t know how old she’d gotten, in the end, or if she was still alive somewhere, with her mother. If she was, she’d be ten this year. That was _ten years_ he hadn’t known her.

Shanks didn’t know if she knew of him. If she had ever wanted to.

He couldn’t let that fear go, no matter how hard he tried—the thought that they were alive somewhere, but that the reason he couldn’t find them was because Makino didn’t want to be found, and that she didn’t want him to have anything to do with their daughter. It killed him to even consider it, but he couldn’t help it. Ten years of searching, and he was still no closer to even finding out what had happened to them, let alone the future Shyarly had predicted.

He’d thought more than once that something must had changed—that something had happened, altering the course of his life, and his future as she’d envisioned it. But the last time he’d visited Fishman Island, Shyarly had only shaken her head, and told him the vision was unchanged, but when he’d asked her what that meant, his temper hanging by a thread as he'd all but spat the words, demanding an answer when nothing else would yield it, she'd only calmly stared him down and told him she didn't know. That it wasn't her trade to know the future, only to see it.

That was three years ago, and the recent unrest on Fishman Island had made him keep his distance. And anyway, Shanks didn’t have the luxury of anonymity; if he went anywhere beyond his own islands, the papers were usually quick to pick up on it, and he knew the Government kept tabs on him. It didn’t really leave much room for repeat visits to a single fortune teller without arousing suspicion, although he didn’t really care what they said about him, or if they thought he wasn’t entirely himself. They were probably right, anyway. He hadn’t been, for many years. Or at least, he hadn’t felt like himself.

Some days he didn’t know if he even wanted the answers he’d spent the last decade searching for. If, by finding them, he'd only have confirmed what he already feared—that he should have left well enough alone. That she’d made a new life somewhere, and one she didn’t want him to be part of, in any capacity. That she’d found someone else, someone to share the parts of herself she'd only ever shared with him. That she'd forgotten why she’d ever wanted him in the first place.

He didn’t know what he’d do if that turned out to be true. Part of him couldn’t believe it could ever be the case, remembering the girl who’d loved him, who'd made no secret of it, but whenever he thought about it there was that little voice inside him, asking if he even remembered correctly, or if, by losing her, he’d just romanticised the idea of what they’d been.

But she had _asked_ him to come back. Ten years, and he hadn’t imagined that promise any more than he’d imagined Makino, the way she’d been, or that she’d loved him, and even if that should have changed, he couldn’t stop looking for her. Even if it wasn’t the answer he wanted, he needed to know.

And if there was even a shred of possibility that Shyarly’s vision could still come true, whatever that meant for him, whatever he meant to _them_ in it, Shanks would do whatever it took to make it happen.

Ben raised his eyes then, a curl of smoke exhaled with his breath and a fleeting glance offered to the treeline at the edge of their camp. “We’ve got company.”

Shanks followed his gaze, a silent acknowledgement in the gesture. He’d sensed them already before they’d disembarked, but they’d been far enough away that he’d elected not to mention it. It was a big enough island for two groups to coexist in relative peace, and their paths didn’t need to cross. If they were seeking shelter from the same storm, Shanks wouldn’t get in their way.

But it seemed they’d had a different idea, and he’d felt them approaching long before Ben’s announcement, the purpose behind it letting him know they weren’t simply walking blind, but that they’d sensed them, too. There were fifteen altogether, although that was only half of the whole group; the rest he could feel somewhere in the distance, towards the opposite shore.

Shanks lifted to his feet, and saw a few of his men do the same, although the rest remained seated as a group of pirates emerged from between the trees.

 _Women_ , he realised with a start, and heard as his crew did the same, the surprised murmurs rising up around him, although it didn’t faze the new arrivals, whose expressions remained unyielding, their features arranged into careful indifference, even as there was no mistaking the wariness sitting beneath their outward calm. Ostensibly, they were coming in peace, but it was by no means out of ignorance.

They moved like warriors—felt like it, their presences sharpened like the swords and daggers at their hips. Haki users, and powerful ones at that. And there was an almost military precision to their approach, in the way they moved, smooth as water and hard as steel, each one certain in her own place and rank.

“Kuja Pirates,” Ben said, observing the women as they moved into the clearing, but still keeping a careful distance from them. He sounded genuinely surprised, which Shanks might have pointed out, if he hadn’t been the same. “This is outside their usual hunting grounds.”

Frowning, Shanks privately agreed. He didn’t know much about the woman they called the Pirate Empress, other than the rumours of what usually happened to those who were unfortunate enough to cross paths with her. Ghost ships drifting aimlessly, their crews turned to stone. She was a Warlord now, he’d heard, although Mihawk generally had little to say about his colleagues, but that her crew should be in the New World seemed…out of character, for a woman as notoriously reclusive as Hawk-Eyes himself.

He'd seen her wanted poster in passing once, before the Government's pardon had rendered it obsolete, but she wasn't with this group, Shanks saw.

Seeming to have had the same thought, "Boa Hancock is not among them," Ben remarked, his voice low and the words directed towards Shanks, although he hadn't taken his eyes off the group of women, who'd fanned out into a deceptively casual formation.

“Think they’ll join us for a drink?” Yasopp asked. He’d rested his hand on his rifle, his grin casual but the gesture entirely telling, and making no secret of the fact. Shanks saw that the rest of his crew had done the same, their hands resting near their weapons.

“Not likely, given their reputation,” Shanks mused, although he didn’t reach for Gryphon. “But it never hurts to ask.”

Of course, even saying it, he sensed their intent—not overtly hostile, although if that had been the case Shanks doubted they would have allowed him to sense them coming. They would have just attacked outright, or at least waited for a better opportunity, say, three more kegs into a drinking binge. They wouldn’t have bothered making a demonstration of approaching him, seemingly in peace, although there was no room for ambiguity in the way they'd assembled, their weapons displayed but not drawn, but leaving no doubt that they could be, and quickly if needed.

No, they hadn’t come with a drink in mind. And Shanks recognised an intimidation tactic when he saw one.

Intrigued—probably despite his better judgement, and if his first mate hadn’t been so focused on the sudden turn of events, Ben probably would have rolled his eyes—Shanks only watched them, a bemused smile playing along his mouth. Of all the things that could have greeted them on a creepy, uncharted island, he never would have expected this, and was curiously tempted to see how it played out.

Yasopp let loose a low whistle, before slipping a murmur towards him, “Might want to offer them that drink soon, Boss.”

Still smiling, Shanks raised his voice, his tone friendly even as he allowed it to carry across the camp, “Looks like we weren’t the only ones derailed by the storm.” He swept his arm out to indicate his crew, and the campfire. “But we’ve got enough food and drink to feed half a fleet. A few more shouldn’t be a problem, and I’m always game for good company.”

“Respectfully, we decline,” spoke a voice, startlingly lovely; a clear trickle of gentle authority, and it took Shanks a full second to realise that he recognised it.

He saw Ben reacting, his eyes wide, and Yasopp wasn't far behind, but Shanks' mind hadn’t managed to catch up with him as he watched a tiny figure moving into view, striding through the group of women, her light, graceful steps lacking the harder edges of her companions as they parted to let her pass. A little thing, she was a good two heads shorter than most of them, but didn’t carry herself like she was, and it was clear she commanded a higher rank from the way they all adjusted to her arrival, falling back a step as she put herself at the front.

His heart stopped.

She lifted her chin to look at him, although it did nothing but emphasise their differences in height, but that didn’t stop her as she met his gaze calmly, and her eyes seized his—eyes that hadn’t looked at him in ten years, such a dark brown they were almost black, and he knew whose they were before his mind had even fully accepted what was in front of him.

He hadn’t recognised it at first—her presence. Sharper than he remembered, more focused, but beneath that, it was the same quiet depths, the same gentle waters, and Shanks had barely grazed the surface with his fingers when his breath ripped out of him, making him jerk back a step, all of him having caught up now, along with the shock of realising just what he was looking at. _Who_ he was looking at.

“I would also request that you make camp elsewhere,” Makino said, in the voice he’d forgotten, that he’d spent ten years trying to remember, and the sound of it now nearly took his knees out. “The Pirate Empress doesn’t tolerate men in her vicinity.”

His mind wasn’t working. He couldn’t even move his mouth to speak, like he’d forgotten how.

No one breathed. No one even moved, like they’d all forgotten what they’d even been doing, although none of the women seemed particularly surprised by their reaction, least of all Makino, mouth firming slightly, although she hadn’t dropped her gaze from his.

Shanks couldn’t take his eyes off her, even as he couldn’t seem to take in what he was seeing, his mind trying in vain to reconcile those few, dearly kept memories he’d been able to hold on to of the girl he’d lost, and the woman standing before him now, like they weren’t one and the same, except they had to be. He’d know her anywhere, and in whatever shape; Shanks had never been more certain of anything. It couldn’t be _anyone else._

She was still so little, but the short hair he remembered was long, the thick coil of her braid hanging heavy over her shoulder, the rest pulled back from her face with a red scarf. It looked damp, either from the rain in the air or the sea, and she was dressed in _armour_ , a burnished metal bodice beneath velvet as dark as her hair. There was nothing resembling the girl he remembered in her dress, soft lace and embroidered aprons exchanged with silver and velvet; a warrior down to the carved bow across her back, and the quiver of arrows.

But she was beautiful, even more than he remembered, although there was something almost fierce about it now, her delicate features hardened with her expression, even as her eyes were too kind to be properly damning, and the gentle cupid’s bow of her mouth too soft for the unyielding line it had formed.

Shanks both recognised her and didn’t, and didn’t know what to do with any of it, least of all himself.

His hand shook, and he thought he might have reached for the kerchief around Gryphon’s hilt, to centre himself; to regain his footing, or at least wrest back control of his body, but he couldn’t even will his fingers to move, all of him seized by the sight of her, staring him down across the distance between them, that once insurmountable gap in his mind having shrunk to less than a few paces faster than he’d been able to keep up.

And looking at her, there was a part of him—too hurt to readily believe, after so long; after searching for so _long_ —that thought he had to be mistaken. That it wasn’t really her, but that his eyes were confusing him, looking at a woman who by all rights should _be_ her, and had somehow tricked his mind into mistaking her presence, too.

But even thinking it, he was reaching out from within himself, finding that calm surface untouched, and there was no mistaking it. Not her, here or anywhere else.

He saw how her brows dipped, as though she’d sensed the touch, but she didn’t draw back, only watched him warily, her gaze doing a quick sweep across the camp around him, taking in their shell-shocked reactions with a deepening frown, as though finally finding something off about it.

Shanks saw Ben rising to his feet, his cigarette dropping from his fingers, but Yasopp was the first to locate his voice, coloured so brightly with disbelief it almost sounded like a laugh as he blurted loudly, “ _Makino_?”

Shanks saw her reacting—saw _all_ the Kuja reacting, surprise loosening the careful arrangement of their expressions, but Makino’s was the brightest, her eyes going wide as shock erupted across her face, caught off guard by the address and leaving no doubt about it.

And even if he didn’t need it, it was the last evidence that drove the truth home, seeing her emotions bared so openly for all to see, and abruptly, Shanks _saw_ her, all of her—saw beyond the armour and the long hair and the ten years and the small ways they’d changed her, to the girl beneath.

She had her bow drawn and aimed in less than a second, and with the unforgiving ease of someone who knew how to use it, and for a staggering beat the breathless grace of it had him so mesmerised he couldn’t even react.

But he _knew_. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt within him now, watching her stare him down along the length of her arrow where she’d nocked it, as though _she_ didn’t know—as though she didn’t even recognise him, but was looking at an enemy, her fear bared naked by her expression, so potent he felt it in her whole presence, and saw it, in the way her fingers shook where they gripped her bow.

And he didn’t know why the sight of him should have put it there, but he couldn’t think, too dazed, too  _happy_ to even properly piece together every single nuance of the information he’d been given. In that moment, Shanks knew only one thing.

_He’d found her._

Before he could think it through, he’d taken a step forward, and this time he felt rather than saw her reacting, the arrow she’d nocked loosened, and so fast he’d barely registered it before he felt pain blossoming along his right cheek, followed by the shattering sound of wood splitting in half, like a bolt of lightning had struck down through the canopy.

Stunned, Shanks lifted his fingers to his cheek, and saw as they came away bloody, from a stinging cut where her arrow had shot past it, only to break one of the trees behind him in half.

 _Armament haki_ , he realised half a second later, gaze shooting back to Makino, who’d already nocked another arrow, and he could barely reconcile the force behind it with her presence, those still waters, even as it resisted his touches now, her guard thrown up like a shield to bar him access.

But her expression still bared every single thing she was feeling, fear brightening her eyes, wider than he’d ever seen them, her distress almost living, such a vivid _terror_ he nearly recoiled from it, realising from the way she looked at him that he was the _cause_ , and if he hadn’t known better, Shanks might have thought her shock had impeded her aim.

But she hadn’t missed. He’d felt her intent as she’d loosed the arrow, and it had been no mistake. It had been a _warning._

No one moved, too stunned to even properly react, his whole crew frozen where they stood, and Shanks couldn’t even find his voice to speak her name, didn’t know if it would have been a question or a plea if he had, the cut in his cheek bleeding and his feet rooted to the ground as he watched her, disbelieving.

And she looked anything but unaffected, the way her eyes bore into his, wide with that undiluted terror, still no recognition in them but instead something like realisation, but her arrow didn’t waver a breath from where she’d aimed it at his chest.

“Take one more step,” Makino warned, and even as her lip trembled, her voice didn’t, lashing out with steel-wrought conviction, one he hadn’t heard since the day he’d first stepped through the doorway of her bar, although there was no mistaking the _hostility_ behind it now as she nearly spat the words—

“And the next goes through your heart.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (hi hello I'm mungoe I love black coffee, reunion scenes, and writing Shanks being achingly in love with Makino)


	8. stars chasing the sun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay on this story! My focus has been on Charybdis lately since I'm so close to the end, but here I am, shamelessly late with a big update, although what else is new.
> 
> I hope you like it!

“Take one more step, and the next goes through your heart.”

She bit off the warning, and she might have been pleased that her voice rang out with so much authority if it hadn’t been for the near hysterical laugh that threatened to shove up behind it, as the rest of her caught up with her body’s visceral reaction, along with the horrifying realisation of what she’d just done.

She’d drawn her weapon on an Emperor, unprompted. Without even thinking about what she was doing, she’d loosed an arrow—had drawn _blood_ , which might have been a mark of pride, if not for the fact that Makino knew she’d caught him off guard. Knew it, because of the way Red-Hair was looking at her, as though the last thing he’d expected her to do was attack him.

She’d attacked an _Emperor_.

She felt sick to her stomach, and her fingers shook where they gripped her bow, the new arrow she’d drawn trembling like she’d strung her whole body along with it, every muscle so painfully tense she thought she was a single breath away from snapping, a fear she hadn’t felt in ten years having seized her breath in her chest, refusing to free it. And she’d threatened to shoot him again but she couldn’t move, frozen like under the auction house lights. She couldn’t breathe.

A few paces away, Red-Hair was looking at her, his face reflecting his shock back at her. The cut in his cheek was bleeding freely, a thin trail of blood gathering in his beard, the tips of his fingers flecked with it where he'd reached up to touch it, although he didn’t seem to have a mind to spare it, not even to be outraged at the show of aggression, or her reckless contempt of the unspoken laws that demanded she show him obeisance and nothing less. Failure to defer to those who ruled this sea was death; everyone knew that.

Oh gods, what had she _done_?

But Red-Hair didn’t strike her down. No one in his whole crew moved so much as a finger, even though she’d shot an arrow at their captain—even though she had a second arrow ready, and had just threatened to put it through his chest. No one had drawn their weapons or made a move towards her, or any of the Kuja. Instead they were all looking at her with similar expressions of stunned disbelief. Makino felt them all, their shock so bright it practically shoved against her senses; felt the same from her own crew, all of them surprised beyond reacting.

And she might have questioned her own reaction, that knee-jerk response that had made her attack him without thinking, but she knew what had done it. She knew why she was so afraid. Not because Red-Hair obviously knew who she was, but because she knew now, and without a shadow of a doubt, exactly who _he_ was. The moment he’d looked at her, the second she realised that he recognised her, she’d known.

There could be no mistake. There might have been, because the red hair wasn’t immediate verification, even if it was the exact same shade as her daughter’s; the one that was a little too bright to believe. But if it hadn’t been for his reaction, she probably wouldn’t have given it a second thought, because why in the world would she ever have had anything to do with an Emperor?

But it wasn’t just the hair, she saw now. Before, she’d only ever seen his picture in the paper. She’d never seen his face in person, had never seen it wrought with emotion. She hadn’t known it could be so expressive, and hadn’t seen what his expressions did with it, the way it shaped his features, which she couldn’t unsee now—that high brow, and the wide, beautiful mouth. And of course it was different; was older, harder and rugged, but looking at it, all she could see was her daughter.

It explained it—the auction house he’d left in ruins that time; the one she’d been in, just a few weeks before. The evidence before her now, she couldn’t deny what she was seeing, what she knew, even as she couldn’t believe it.

“Makino?” Red-Hair said then, and the sound of her name in his voice did something to her—hooked itself in her chest and yanked out her breath, and she’d already realised he knew who she was, but having it confirmed like that made her feel like she’d been stripped of all her armour; like she’d been shoved naked into the battle ring with nothing but her bare fists to defend herself.

It made her feel like the auction house, on stage before a hundred gazes claiming ownership of her. It was _crippling_.

She couldn’t unfreeze her limbs, and in that moment Makino didn’t think she could have loosed the arrow if her life had depended on it. But she didn’t have to, and Red-Hair wasn’t given the chance to even think about taking another step forward before every single Kuja at her back had circled him, their weapons drawn, the tips of their spears pointed at his throat.

He didn’t move—hadn’t even flinched, or taken his eyes off her, as though the women circling him didn’t even exist, much less the lethally sharp spearpoints less than a hairsbreadth from his throat, and in his complete and utter disregard of both, Makino felt the chilling knowledge that he wouldn’t have to lift a finger to kill them all.

Her breath shivered in her chest, her heart clenched like a fist, but she couldn’t muster her voice to demand they all back down—that they retreat, before he proved her instincts right.

For his part, Red-Hair hadn’t moved to disarm them, his hand hanging slack at his side. He hadn’t even reached for his sword, although Makino felt that was somehow worse.

“Stand down,” she said then, and heard how hoarse her voice sounded, before she repeated, firmer, “I said _stand down_. That’s an order!”

The command lashed out, striking the tense quiet. Reluctantly, they lowered their weapons, and she watched as they stepped away from Red-Hair. She caught Marigold’s look, and knew they all had the same thoughts; knew they’d all connected the dots, although Makino didn’t know what to do any more than they did. She didn’t know how to handle this, the revelation she hadn’t expected, here and now, of all times and places.

The father of her child. The one whose identity she’d wondered about for ten years, but now that she knew, Makino thought not knowing had been kinder.

Red-Hair still hadn’t made a move towards her, only continued to watch her, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. She felt trapped by his gaze, unable to look away even as she wanted nothing more than to do that, fearing what she'd find in it, or within herself. Memories she didn't know if she even wanted, when her imagination had so often supplied her with substitutes, of cruel eyes and strong hands holding her down, her body violated, taken against her will.

Had it been him? Was it those eyes she couldn't bear recalling—had he been the one to take that part of her, and who'd left her so traumatised she couldn't remember?

She needed space to think—needed to breathe, or at least the opportunity to try, before she crumbled completely. She couldn’t lose herself now; couldn’t afford to let her guard down, for fear of what he’d do if she did.

She needed to do something—to salvage the situation before he killed them all, unless he had something else in mind; something that would make her long for death.

Carefully, she allowed her breath to ease out as she loosened her grip on the arrow, lowering her bow, although she didn’t put it away.

“We will leave you be,” Makino heard herself saying, and didn’t know if the words were meant as a command or a request. She hoped they didn’t sound like a plea. “I only ask that you show us the same courtesy. We’re no threat to you, or your territory. We’re merely passing through.”

The suggestion that they were leaving seemed to be what snapped him out of his daze, but she’d dragged her eyes away from his before she could see him reacting. She couldn't look at them now that they'd taken the place of the nameless ones within her; the not-memories she'd made for herself, to fill the gaps in her own.

“Wait!” his voice called out, and the desperation in it lanced through her, but before he could move, the other Kuja had put themselves between them, their weapons in their hands but not drawn this time.

Makino caught their questioning glances, requesting orders, even as she didn’t know the right course of action. They had no means of escape, no way to get off this island, but no matter how grim their odds were, they had to warn Hancock.

“Go,” she told them, and was surprised by how calm her voice sounded, given what she was feeling. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Red-Hair, her gaze fixed at his throat.

They all balked. Even Rindo, who was the least flappable person Makino knew. “Commander—”

Makino’s look cut her off, and she said nothing else, the command lingering on the air, brooking no dissent as she stared them all down.

Their weapons were put away, and she felt as they took their leave, their reluctance palpable, but even if they disagreed, she knew they’d follow her orders.

None of the Red-Hair Pirates had spoken, or moved to intervene. Makino didn’t know what she expected any of them to do—if they would attempt to take her by force if she tried to leave. If they did, she would fight. Hopefully, she could hold them off long enough for the others to reach Hancock. She didn’t know what good it would do, but if nothing else, they wouldn’t be caught unawares, and Hancock’s powers might give them a chance. Red-Hair's crew might be powerful, but they were still human, and susceptible to the same weaknesses as other men.

She hadn’t drawn her bow again, but the way she held it suggested she would, if need be. Makino made sure she left no doubt about it.

“Makino,” Red-Hair said again, his voice rough where it wrapped around the syllables of her name. Where it had been a question before, it sounded like a plea now. “What—”

He didn’t finish, as though he didn’t rightly know what he was asking. And she didn’t dare think about what it suggested; couldn’t make herself follow that line of thought for long, towards what his reaction might mean. But it didn't matter why he'd reacted like that, if she could use his distraction to tip the scales in her favour.

She seized her chance before she'd had time to question it.

“I would ask that you let me leave,” she said. She'd lifted her eyes back to his, even as it took every ounce of strength she possessed to keep looking at him. “Please.”

She saw that he was ready to object, his features drawing together, not with reluctance but denial, and her knuckles were white where they gripped her bow, terror turning her insides to jelly, tempting her to act, even as she forced herself to remain calm. The fact that he’d allowed her to attack him once didn’t mean he’d let her do it a second time.

“No one will stop you,” spoke a new voice, and she jumped, their gazes breaking as her eyes shot to the side, towards one of Red-Hair's men. He had long silver hair pulled back in a low ponytail, and a distinct scar on his temple. “I just have one question before you go.”

Makino glanced back at Red-Hair, only to find him looking at the man who’d addressed her. From the obvious liberties he was taking, he had to be a subordinate of a high rank.

“What?” she asked. She was surprised she was still in control of her voice, let alone her bowels.

He considered her for a long moment. He had dark, shrewd eyes, which saw more than his expression revealed, not a single thought surrendered as he observed her.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked her then. Makino saw Red-Hair’s gaze shoot towards him, surprised, but he didn’t acknowledge it, only continued to observe her, as though awaiting her answer.

Makino took him in. He was older than most of the pirates surrounding him, and cut a broad figure; tall, and wide across the shoulders, an appearance that suggested an affinity for brute strength, although it seemed curiously at odds with the sharp, calculating gleam in his eyes. His presence was steady as a rock, immovable in the midst of his companions' surprise and growing distress.

She searched within herself for any kind of recognition, but there was nothing, no name or even the inkling of one came to mind as she looked at him, as much a stranger to her as they all were.

“No,” Makino said.

His face didn’t reveal surprise at her answer, or anything else. Red-Hair’s did, and vividly, but he said nothing, although Makino didn’t linger to let him, suddenly desperate to get away.

She didn’t wait to repeat her request of being allowed to leave, or to question if he’d been telling the truth when he’d said they wouldn't stop her, emboldened by their lack of outward hostility, or otherwise sinister intent. And taking it as a sign that they wouldn’t strike her down running, she didn’t look back as she turned from them and fled, and so fast she couldn’t pretend she was doing anything else, but she was too shaken to care about appearances now.

She needed to get away, although even as she fled through the underbrush, pushing herself to a dead sprint just to put some distance between them, her muscles cramping and her heart flinging itself against her ribcage so hard it felt like it was about to break it, the knowledge followed at her heels, trailed behind her like iron-bound shackles weighing down her wrists and ankles, her flight to freedom impeded by the chilling understanding that they might have let her go now and that she could run as far as she pleased, but that she still didn’t have a means of getting off the island.

And that from the look on his face when she’d turned her back to him, it wasn’t the last she’d see of Red-Hair.

 

—

 

“Memory loss,” Ben said, after Makino had left. “That would explain it.”

“Shit,” Yasopp cursed, the exclamation seeming to echo what they were all feeling. Then again, Shanks couldn’t seem to find anything more eloquent to say.

They were all looking in the direction she’d disappeared, following the other Kuja. It was getting rapidly darker, the creeping mist having taken on a ghostly, bluish tint where it curled between the branches, the forest having swallowed her up like a wood sprite, and if it hadn’t been for the fact that they’d all seen her, Shanks might have thought he’d conjured the whole meeting himself.

“She’s been with them a while,” Ben said then, the words directed at Shanks this time. “They called her ‘Commander’." A glance behind them before he added, a tinge dryly, "And she's had training in haki.”

"More than just haki," Lucky said, peering at the tree she'd shattered to splinters, and the arrow lodged in the riven carcass, the feather fletching like a flower sprouting from the remains, a deep, verdant green. Shanks felt his next look, but didn't reach up to touch the cut across his cheekbone, the sharp sting barely registering.

He hadn't taken his eyes off the trees. He felt her presence in the distance; her urgent retreat, and the fear rippling it. She’d fled like she’d thought they’d stop her.

“It explains why we haven’t found her,” Ben continued, bending down to pluck the arrow free, before turning it between his fingers. “No one knows the location of the Kuja Tribe. Or at least it’s not common knowledge.”

“How the hell did she end up with them?” Yasopp asked, reaching out to take the arrow from him, inspecting it, before letting slip a low whistle as he stroked a fingertip along the green feathers. "This is damn good craftsmanship. No wonder it didn't break on impact."

Ben glanced towards the trees again. “Sabaody?" he suggested then. His outward calm was betrayed by the tight clench of his fingers, although the most damning evidence was the fact that he'd chucked his cigarette. "Shakky mentioned she was meeting someone. Maybe an opportunity presented itself. If she couldn’t remember anything, it might have seemed like her best option.”

“She reacted to her name,” Yasopp pointed out, to a murmur of agreement. “She has to remember something.”

“Retrograde amnesia manifests in different ways,” Ben said. “Maybe she remembers some aspects of herself, but not specific events.”

“She didn’t remember us,” someone spoke up, quietly.

Shanks felt Ben’s gaze, before he said, heavily, “No.”

They were all talking now, their voices seeming to have been freed from the shock that had left them all tongue-tied, but Shanks couldn’t seem to grasp what they were saying. His body felt like lead, the lightheaded relief that had seized his control earlier gone, leaving him feeling both empty and overburdened, too many thoughts churning in his mind but no strength to sift through them.

“At any rate, we know she’s been safe,” Ben said, and then to Shanks, “Your daughter, too. At least presumably.”

The mention was almost too much, but it was what snapped him out of his daze, dragging his distracted mind bodily back to himself, although the sudden awareness wasn’t any better, and he didn’t know what he was feeling—if it was relief, knowing she’d at least been safe all these years; that she’d been somewhere hidden and protected. It felt more like grief, realising that for all his searching, there was a reason he hadn’t found them. Not just because of where she’d been, but because she didn’t remember him.

 _Memory loss_.

She didn’t know who he was. He hadn’t understood it at first, that utter lack of recognition in her eyes, and her reaction to him. He’d been struck by her uncharacteristic show of hostility, his worst fears confirmed; that she did blame him for what had happened, and that she wanted nothing to do with him. For a terrible moment, he'd thought that was why she'd reacted like that, although now that he knew the real reason, the truth wasn’t any kinder.

She didn’t remember him; didn’t know him from a stranger. She’d looked him in the eye, but there’d been nothing there, the bond he’d grasped like a tether for ten years severed with a single glance, and the arrow she’d shot, although the one she’d threatened to put through his heart had been the harder blow, remembering her soft hands and gentle nature, and the ways she’d loved him.

There was nothing left of that girl. Or if there was, she didn’t remember loving him.

His chest hurt so much he felt like he had to sit down, as though something was squeezing the life from his heart.

“Boss?”

Their voices seemed far away, like he was deep underwater, drowning where he stood, his lungs filling up like they were about to burst. There wasn't enough air to breathe, and he felt dizzy, like he was about to pass out.

Grasping for purchase, he thought of her eyes, dark like upturned soil, the same as they’d been. Those hadn’t changed, even if her situation clearly had; even if that sharp-eyed archer was far from the barmaid he remembered, he’d still recognised her. He'd known the hands that had gripped her bow so fiercely, small enough to cover with his, and her face, the most expressive he'd ever known, and still too honest for its own good.

And the heart had been the same; the one that never put itself first. The one that had sent the others away, even knowing full well she couldn't possibly take them all on by herself. However much she’d changed, and whatever she’d forgotten, it was the same _heart_ , even if it didn’t remember loving him. And he couldn’t let her go. Not now when he’d finally found her. He _wouldn’t_.

“That might not be the best course of action,” Ben told him, as Shanks made for the trees. “You might want to give her some space.”

Shanks didn’t stop, a single-minded purpose shoving him forward. He couldn’t let her leave. He didn’t know if he’d find her again if she did. “I need to see her.”

“They looked ready to skewer you if you so much as breathed in her direction,” Yasopp reminded him.

“I don’t _care_ ,” Shanks snapped, rounding on them. “What am I supposed to do, just let her go?”

Yasopp let his hands drop, a gesture of surrender. He was still holding Makino's arrow. “Honestly? I have no idea. I’m still trying to catch up. But going by how they reacted, they didn’t seem like they’d welcome a chat.”

“That reaction was curious,” Ben said. There was a familiar crease between his brows, the one he got when he was trying to puzzle out a problem. “The Kuja aren’t known for being hospitable to men, but this seemed personal.” He looked at Shanks, considering. He had the inkling of an idea, Shanks knew, but whatever it was, Ben didn’t share it.

“I need to talk to her,” Shanks said, simply. He didn’t know what else to do. “Before they set sail.”

Ben didn’t disagree, only said, “If Boa Hancock is there, you’ll have trouble.”

“Then you can collect my petrified corpse later,” Shanks spat, as he turned to walk away.

“What’s the plan, Cap?” Yasopp called after him, but Shanks didn’t answer; didn’t have a plan in mind, but he didn’t care. And the reasonable course of action would be to give her space, as Ben had suggested. He wasn’t the only one who’d been caught clean off guard by their meeting, and if she had no memory of any of them, being faced with his whole crew would have left her understandably rattled.

But there was no room for reason within him, thinking about her— _alive_ , and less than an island’s distance away, when he’d for ten years feared her forever out of reach. And even if her hostility hadn’t allowed him to close it, to touch her like he craved so badly it left his fingers shaking, it didn’t matter. Right now, all he needed was to see her.

He sought out her presence through the forest, finding it still within reach, the clear trickle through his mind so familiar it hurt just brushing against it. He'd thought he'd never know it again, but now that he did, he had no intention of letting it slip through his fingers.

He’d take that arrow she’d promised before he did.

 

—

 

They’d salvaged most of their supplies by the time Makino’s party returned to the ship, and Hancock knew something had gone wrong even before she caught sight of her face. She'd been the last to return, as though she'd given the others a head start, and she looked nearly out of breath, which set Hancock on edge even more than her heartsick expression.

“What happened?”

Makino didn’t answer, but then her face said enough, and Hancock’s eyes narrowed, her gaze shooting to Marigold, who’d been part of the group that had set out.

A tense beat followed wherein they exchanged furtive glances, as though they were all reluctant to speak, and Hancock was on the verge of spitting a command when her sister finally said, “It was Red-Hair.”

Her heart stilled like her tongue, and Hancock felt as her face fell.

“Red-Hair?” Sandersonia asked, surprised. “The _Emperor_?”

Worried murmurs rose up from the Kuja around her, although Hancock saw that the group who'd returned looked wary rather than frightened. They were all looking at Makino, as though waiting for her to explain.

“Well?” Hancock asked her.

Her face revealed everything she was feeling, although for once, Hancock doubted Makino considered that honesty a boon. And she still said nothing, although it wasn’t out of insubordination that she held her tongue. Her cheeks were pallid, the fair complexion that had stubbornly resisted Amazon Lily’s climate looking even paler than usual. Even the tender constellation of freckles across her nose seemed leached of colour, and her eyes, which had always been unnervingly large, seemed all the more prominent; dark, haunted mirrors to the churning sea beneath.

She looked visibly shaken. A feat, Hancock thought, for the steadiest heart she knew.

She didn’t have to ponder the reason long, as the answer presented itself before the man himself did, and her eyes shot towards the forest, sensing the approaching presence. Makino’s lack of surprise told Hancock she’d already felt him coming, although she made no move to draw any of her weapons, her bow untouched, even as her hands curled at her sides, her knuckles whiter than her skin as she raised her eyes to the treeline.

Hancock watched as Red-Hair strode through the trees, and felt the other Kuja reacting, their weapons drawn between two heartbeats, even as those Makino had brought back did nothing, something like resignation in their failure to respond, which sent a foreboding chill down her spine.

Red-Hair hadn't ceased his advancement, the force behind his long strides eating up the ground as the mist released him, the black cloak around his shoulders like he'd dragged the shadows of the forest with him. Hancock saw that he was alone, although that was no assurance, given what she knew about him. And even if they had him outnumbered she knew they posed no real threat, but in thinking it, she felt an entirely reckless response shoving up within her, taking in his authoritative approach, and the commanding weight of his presence, as though it was his due to claim space for himself, and to take liberties with them; as though it was somehow owed to him, simply for being a man of power. And she knew why he’d come—knew exactly _who_ he’d come for, irrespective of whether Makino even welcomed the intrusion.

She hated him in that moment, and before her better reason could douse her temper she was striding forward, and had intercepted him before he could reach them.

She saw him halting, physically blocked from going any further. Her height put her at eye level with him, which daunted most men who fancied themselves in the dominant position when it came to women, although it didn’t deter Red-Hair, and he only spared her a fleeting glance before he fixed his eyes on something behind her. Hancock didn’t have to look to know who he was looking at.

“Leave,” she told him flatly, the statement like a blade severing an artery; no room for interpretation. “I have decreed this Kuja territory, and you are trespassing. My tribe’s rules regarding men are clear, and the punishment for defying even one of those rules is death.” She narrowed her eyes. “But if that is what you have come here seeking, I will gladly deliver.”

Red-Hair wasn’t looking at her, and Hancock tried not to bristle at the brazen dismissal, wholly devoid of concern.

“I came to speak with her,” he said, his gaze still on Makino. From his air of authority, Hancock thought he might as well have decided to stop of his own accord; that putting herself bodily in front of him had barely even registered.

She bristled. “Insolent man,” she seethed. “I already told you—”

“She can speak for herself,” Red-Hair cut her off, and Hancock heard the gasps behind her, and felt the shock where it rippled through the other Kuja at the blatant show of disrespect. But Red-Hair still wasn’t looking at her, like her presence barely even fazed him. It was an effort keeping from showing her outrage, and worse—her own shock.

Never had a man treated her with less concern. Even Hawk-Eyes, for all his aloofness, had still yielded a glimpse of intrigue, but Red-Hair was barely acknowledging her, seeming utterly indifferent to both her anger and the sight of her, his gaze still trained over her shoulder at Makino, like he had eyes for nothing else.

Hancock didn’t know whether to be begrudgingly pleased, or furious.

“You will leave,” she repeated her earlier order, and heard how her voice shivered with fury. “That is not a _request_.”

He might as well not have heard her. “Makino,” he said, and Hancock caught the surprised murmurs at the intimate address, although it seemed curiously unimportant compared to the vivid desperation on his face, and in his voice where it shaped her name.

The others had stepped up beside her now, effectively putting themselves between them, their weapons drawn, although the physical shield of their bodies held a different promise than their unsheathed spears and bows. And even if he hadn't spared her a second glance, their collective show of protectiveness didn’t escape him, Hancock saw.

She wasn’t naive. She knew they didn’t stand a chance, not against an Emperor, but despite his rejection of her earlier order, Red-Hair seemed intent on demonstrating some kind of courtesy in keeping his distance.

“I just want to talk to her,” he said, the words directed at Makino, who'd yet to speak a word. But Hancock felt her; the still-present fear, and the clash of conflicted feelings in her presence.

“That desire does not appear to be mutual,” Hancock hissed, and this time his eyes flicked back to hers, the grey steel in them cutting, and the glance a twinge annoyed, as though she was of no more consequence than a particularly persistent fly. And despite being the absolute height of reckless impertinence, the likes of which she’d never in her life experienced, and from a man no less, it was a curiously liberating feeling.

She killed it before it had the chance to get comfortable—to make her forget that she was still dealing with a man, and that he wasn’t excused just for failing to meet her expectations of his sex.

For a tense beat that seemed to suck all the oxygen out of the air, they stared each other down. And usually, it didn’t take her more than a glance to bring a man to his knees, but Red-Hair met her gaze, unflinching, not so much as a flicker of affectation in his whole presence, not even defiance. Some men were smug about it, resisting her, as though they’d faced the Gorgon itself and lived, believing themselves somehow above other men for not falling victim to her powers, but there was no arrogance in the way he beheld her. Oh, there was a _challenge_ there, Hancock was certain of that, but it seemed with regard to her authority, one captain to another, rather than her physical beauty, to which he seemed wholly indifferent. And she might have suspected his preferences of being of an entirely different sort if it hadn’t been for the look in his eyes as they went back to Makino, which was anything but unaffected.

Makino still hadn’t spoken, and Red-Hair didn’t address her again. Instead, all he did was look at her, disregarding both Hancock and the Kuja warriors who’d put themselves between them, as though he didn’t even see them; as though for him, it was just the two of them present.

Hancock watched as his gaze lifted to the shallows behind them, and what remained of their ship, before his brows furrowed and her heart sank, but instead of saying what she thought he would—to point out their precarious position, in this as in their strength and numbers—he did the opposite.

“Then I’ll wait until it is,” Red-Hair said, in something that managed to sound both like an offer and a challenge. He was looking at Makino now. “You must want answers,” he told her, but where Hancock expected him to elaborate, the offer sweetened with a promise, all he said was, “When you do, you know where to find me.”

It was by no means a surrender, even as he made to leave, and without getting what he’d so clearly come there with in mind.

Holding Makino’s gaze, Red-Hair didn’t spare Hancock or any of the others so much as a parting glance as he turned on his heel to walk back in the direction he’d come, his back turned to them and all the spears and arrows aimed at it, a careless action that would have been another man’s folly. But more than any exaggerated demonstration of strength, any wild flourish that another pirate might have resorted to in order to pronounce himself superior, that frustratingly calm dismissal was the most effective demonstration he could have chosen, declaring loudly and without apology just how vast the power gap between them. He didn’t even glance back.

And Hancock knew she wasn’t the only one who’d felt it, when not a single arrow followed him into the trees, remaining instead frozen where they were nocked, as though in silent warning—as though it would make even a shred of difference, should he change his mind and kill them all.

 

—

 

_Damn it!_

Ace left a trail of hurried apologies as he pushed through the crowd, a string of oaths and surprised exclamations springing up behind him as he hurtled down the steeply sloping street towards the harbour, before coming to a halt at the bottom. He spun around once, twice, gaze scanning the crowd for the red beacon of her hair, but he’d lost her.

He berated himself for having been so distracted he’d let her get away. The spot between his ribs still ached, the sheer, uncompromising precision of that kick more impressive than the surprising force she’d put behind that tiny little frame. He’d just caught his breath in time to run after her, but she’d gotten a decent head start, and she was _quick,_  to the point where he’d barely been given the chance to get a good look at her before she’d bolted.

But he couldn’t be mistaken. There was no _way_. Red-Hair had told him it was a girl, two years ago when Ace had tracked him down. He’d told him of the seer on Fishman Island, who’d confirmed it when Ace had found her, although her vision for him hadn’t included her in any way, but that didn’t matter. The fact that she was alive—that Makino was alive—was all he needed to know.

She was the right age, and even if her hair and her eyes hadn’t already convinced him, the anchor around her neck had left no room for doubt. She couldn’t be anyone else.

He had so many questions, so many things he needed to know, but he couldn’t ask her any of them if she got away from him now. If he lost her here he might never find her again, and he’d lose his chance at finding Makino, too. If her daughter was here, she might be as well, and it was almost too much to believe, finding them so suddenly, and in this place of all possible islands in the world. It almost seemed too good to be true.

He didn’t allow himself to linger on the fact that it might well be, refusing to give up hope before the girl herself confirmed it, but damn it, he needed to find her before he could say anything for certain!

It was a feat just centring his focus with his thoughts in a jumble and his heart stuck to the roof of his mouth, but calming his breathing, Ace flung out part of himself, hoping he could somehow root out her presence, even though their interaction had been so brief he hadn't been able to get a good sense of it.

As it turned out, he didn't need to sense her to find her, catching the tiny shape through the taller adults packed into the street like fish in a barrel, and he fixed his gaze on it as he made to follow, not running this time, in hopes that he might catch her unawares. She’d pulled her hood back over her hair, but the way she moved betrayed her, lacking the childlike gracelessness most kids her age should have. She didn’t stumble as she weaved between the bodies in the street, nimble and fleet-footed, but if she thought she could shake him that easily, she had another thing coming. Ace had spent his childhood keeping track of a brother who couldn’t sit still if his life depended on it. He was a grown-assed man now, and a Commander to boot; there was no way he was going to be outsmarted by a ten-year-old.

As though she’d sensed the challenge, she stole a glance over her shoulder, and Ace found her eyes looking straight at him through the crowd, before her brows furrowed sharply, and she turned and bolted. But he was already running, shoving people out of the way now, nearly forgetting to apologise. He couldn’t lose sight of her!

She led him in a circle around the harbour, veering off in seemingly random directions whenever he thought he’d figured out her pattern, the changes made so quickly he could barely keep up, jerked this way and that as she doubled back, feigning a dash before she changed tracks and shot past him, too quick for him to catch. Like a cricket, all it took was a blink of his eyes and she’d jumped in a different direction, skipping between the people in the crowd like stalks of wheat in a field. Unnervingly, it felt like she’d done this before, leaving him feeling spectacularly out of his depth. Even chasing after Luffy hadn't been this frustrating.

He stopped by the wharf, out of breath, which might have made him laugh if he wasn’t so focused on catching her. She’d made a beeline for the water, and for an embarrassingly panicked second, Ace had thought she meant to dive in, before she'd ducked between the crates of a shipment that had been recently unloaded, and in the moment it had taken him to catch up she’d vanished.

“Seriously?” he muttered, looking around, but there was no sign of her anywhere, the breathless bustle of the harbour continuing without a hitch, the stream of people passing by parting around him where he stood in the midst of the hubbub.

Then from out of the corner of his eye, he caught her slipping out from behind another stack of crates, and spun around just in time to watch her stagger to a stop.

Their eyes met across the wharf, and for a moment all they did was look at each other, neither budging from the silent stand-off, as though waiting for the other to act.

Suddenly, she lurched into motion, sprinting towards him before he could get his bearings, so fast she seemed like little more than a blur, and there was a moment where he wondered if she meant to attack him again, but before he could figure out how to disarm an aggressive ten-year-old without hurting her in the process, a small hand shot up to grab the bone medallion attached to the strings of his hat, and before he’d had the chance to realise what she planned to do she'd yanked it down, pulling the brim into his eyes and cutting off his vision.

“Hey—!”

A small shape darted between his legs, and he’d just shoved his hat back up and out of his eyes in time to catch her sprinting back the way they’d come, towards the houses crowding the main street where it crawled up the hill.

He was in pursuit in less than a second, ignoring the people who’d stopped to watch what had now become something of a spectacle, murmurs of _thief_ and _pirate_ following him as he chased after the girl, who ducked under skirts and carts and left a rather incriminating trail of shrieks and oaths in her wake.

She made a sharp turn around a corner into a side-street, and Ace followed, before he jerked to a sudden halt, finding her at the top of the steep incline, where a precarious stack of barrels were lilting against the wall of one of the houses.

He caught her glancing towards it, before her eyes shot back to his, and he realised suddenly what she meant to do.

Ace pointed a finger at her. “No,” he warned, and saw the flash of challenge in her eyes, before she _shoved_ her shoulder into the stack, and the whole thing came crashing down the street towards him.

Biting off a startled oath, he threw a hand up, fire leaping from his fingertips to envelop the barrage, eating through the wood in a second and turning the whole of it to ash, before it rained like fairy dust onto the cobblestones as the flames licking his fingers guttered to nothing. The scent of burnt wood singed the air, and he spared a passing apology to whoever owned whatever had been in the barrels.

Lifting his eyes to the other end of the alley, he caught her gawking at him from the top of the street, her brown eyes round and her expression bright with something Ace couldn’t tell was amazement or horror, and there was a second where he thought he might use her distraction to catch her, before she turned to scale the wall of the house to her right, only to launch herself over the side of the roof and out of sight, but by that time he was already running.

He rounded the corner, and then the next, and around the third, found a dead-end staring him in the face. The girl was nowhere to be found, but he’d familiarised himself with her presence now; that bright, playful warmth, and he’d singled her out in a breath, hidden atop the roof to his left.

And, of course, there was the rather damning sound of a stomach growling. Loudly.

He looked up at the roof, and found her flinching back, but before she could make a run for it, he’d called out—“Wait! I just want to talk to you!”

It didn’t stop her, and he let slip a disbelieving chuckle before he made to follow, but not at a sprint this time. Instead he focused on her presence, keeping it in his mind as he tracked her passage across the rooftops, allowing her to stay ahead. If he couldn’t catch up with her, he’d wear her down. She was quick, but she hadn’t been playing smart; she had to be growing tired from the pace she kept, if not from her exaggerated acrobatics.

_You're a bit of a show-off, huh?_

He felt her in his mind, and couldn’t help the smile, wondering if she thought she had him bested, but before his amusement could get comfortable, he sensed her stopping—abruptly, like something had stopped her, and beside her presence Ace sensed another, this one sharpened with an unmistakable intent that made his insides go suddenly cold.

His smile slipping from his face, he felt how her presence sparked with surprise, before it brightened to outright fear, and then he was running, weaving between the crooked maze of streets as he pushed himself to cover the distance between them.

He entered the alley at a run, only to find a man out cold at his feet, forcing him to a stop. From the look of him, Ace guessed he was a deckhand or a dockworker, although his unkempt appearance marked him as the less-than-reputable sort that roamed the docks for cheap labour and the dregs running out of the watering holes lining the port.

Ace watched as he groaned, his eyes blinking open. “Fucking brat,” he spat, his eyes darting around as he tried to push himself up. “The hell did she do…?”

“Gave you a solid beating, from the look of it,” Ace said, looking down at him. His breath reeked of ale and stronger spirits, and it might be a different part of the world, but he'd long since learned to recognise the kind of heart that lurked behind the glazed, bloodshot eyes staring up at him in confusion and mild annoyance.

Ace had him hoisted up by his neck before he could collect himself, his breath choked off with a strangled squeak as he held him out, his legs kicking at the air. “You know, it takes a special kind of fucked up to want to hurt a kid,” he said, his mouth curling up at one corner, although it wasn't much of a smile. “Even one who’s capable of kicking your ass.”

The man gurgled, spittle foaming at the corners of his mouth as Ace stared him down. “What were you gonna do to her, huh?” he asked, his tone musing. "A ten year old girl in the back of an alley?” He narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, I know what you wanted. I felt it. It’s not looking good for you.”

He was still fighting the hold on his neck, as he rasped, “The hell is it any of your business what I do, _pirate_?”

“Guilty as charged on all accounts,” Ace mused, before he tugged his face closer, and said, “But I don't go after little kids.”

The man glared, his teeth bared in a rotting leer, but Ace had choked off his air before he could spit out whatever he’d meant to say. It didn’t take a lot of haki to knock him out, and hard enough that he wouldn’t be waking in a long while.

He could have melted the skin right off his bones, but he had an audience, and he wasn’t about to scar her for life just to make an example. He’d drop him off downtown later. There was no navy outpost here, but then even if there had been, Ace wouldn’t have trusted them to do anything useful. No, there were other ways of dealing with criminals of this sort; the worst ilk that clung to places like this like barnacles crusting the hull of a ship. But like its crooks, every port had its purveyors of justice; men and women with an otherwise liberal interpretation of the law, but who allowed no room for compromise when it came to certain things, like rapists and children.

He dropped the unconscious body at his feet, and wiped his hands on his shorts with a grimace. His shirt had been sticky with something Ace had hoped was spilled liquor, although he was afraid it was something else entirely. _Swell_.

The little presence on the roof behind him hadn’t budged, brightened with that same mixture of awe and fear he’d seen on her face earlier. Sensing it, he expelled a breath, although it wasn’t hard reeling in his temper. He’d learned to control that a long time ago.

“Hey, cricket,” he said gently, and felt as she jerked to attention. He tried not to smile. “I know you’re there. Listen, I just want to talk, okay? I’m not gonna hurt you.”

She didn’t respond, or give any indication that she was there, even if she had to know she didn't have him fooled.

A different tactic, then.

“Those were some impressive evasive manoeuvres,” he said. If she was anything like her mother, appealing to her ego wouldn’t do him any favours, but if he had her pegged right, a bit of praise might be just the right bait.

“You’re quick,” he continued, and didn’t have to feign his marvelling tone. “I couldn’t keep up, and that’s not a small feat. I’m pretty fast myself.” Smiling, he allowed the words to sit on his tongue a moment, before he admitted, “But you’re faster.”

A short beat followed where nothing happened, before a tiny head popped up above the roof, and a pair of familiar doe-brown eyes seized his. She still had her hood pulled up, but he saw the wild tangle of her red hair where it tried to escape it.

“I am,” she agreed, a childlike pride colouring the bright lilt of her voice. “I’m one of the fastest in my whole tribe.”

 _Tribe_ , Ace thought, and filed away the small piece of information. “That right?” he chuckled. “I’m not surprised. You’ll have to teach me that trick with the feint, when you pulled my hat down. I think I might use that sometime. I'm on the run a lot, and that could really come in handy.”

He watched as she considered him, her expression openly wary but still unable to conceal the curiosity underlying it. He hadn’t moved to climb the roof, or to make any kind of advance towards her, his arms hanging slack at his sides in an open invitation of a truce, and he saw that it hadn’t escaped her.

She flicked her eyes down to the little snake he’d spied, curled around her neck, and for a second she seemed deep in thought, before she looked at him. “You said you wanted to talk. Why? I tried to rob you.” But then she was quick to add, “N-not that I’m admitting guilt or anything.  _You’re_ the one who claimed I was trying to steal your wallet.”

Ace had to fight to keep his smile from stretching into a grin. And that quick tongue wasn’t her mother’s, but the spectacularly poor attempt at lying was.

He considered his options. Lying to her wouldn’t serve him in the long run if he wanted to gain her trust, but he didn’t know if telling her the truth from the outset would be a good idea or not. There was still so much he didn’t know, of where she’d come from and why she was on this island; of where she’d been all this time, along with her mother. That was, if they hadn’t somehow been separated. Makino’s anchor suggested otherwise, but Ace couldn’t be sure unless she told him. And he didn’t want to spook her and send her running again.

He’d promised Red-Hair he’d find them; had promised Makino the same, a long time ago. He couldn’t afford to mess things up now that he was so close—now that she was right there in front of him. And even if he didn’t have all the information, he was certain about one thing: that she was who he thought. He’d bet his life on it.

In the end, he settled for the truth. “Because I know you,” he said.

She was quick to retort, “That’s impossible.” Ace thought she sounded pleased, like she’d somehow gained the upper hand, catching him in a lie. She stuck her nose up, a pert little thing smattered with freckles. “I’ve only been here a few hours.”

“We’ve met before,” Ace said, before amending, “Well. Sort of.”

“Still not possible,” she shot back. “This is my first time away from home, and I don’t remember meeting you. And don’t say you’ve visited, because I’ll know you’re lying.” Then, as though she’d misspoken, she stuttered to correct herself, “I-I mean, I can tell that you are. It’s not that you _couldn’t_ have visited, because you could have. It's not like we don't have visitors where I'm from. We’re totally open to visitors. We have visitors _all_ the time.”

She ran at the mouth even faster than her legs could carry her, and he had the sudden impression that she was nervous, but couldn’t even begin to guess what she’d said that was so incriminating. Something about the place she came from? She’d mentioned a tribe, which suggested it was somewhere out of the way. That might explain why no one had found them, although it didn’t explain what she was doing here, now, or where Makino was.

Observing her, Ace hesitated. And he was probably risking a lot with this, he knew, but hoped he was making the right decision, as he told her, “I know your mom. We met while you were still in her belly.” He smiled, remembering. “You know, this is the second time you’ve kicked me. I’ve gotta admit, the first time was nicer. But then you weren’t aiming back then. Or at least I don't think you were.”

Her brows drew together, and he saw that her earlier confidence wavered. And this was it, Ace thought, even as he couldn’t believe he was mistaken, but if by some minuscule chance he was, this would be the last piece of evidence he needed. “Her name is Makino, right?”

The surprise that erupted across her face confirmed it, and she seemed to forget her wariness completely as she blurted, “How do you know that?”

He tried not to let his own face reveal everything he was feeling; the relief he’d been holding off while he’d chased her through the streets earlier, not wanting to believe without being sure, but there was no denying it now.

“I told you,” Ace said, and heard that he sounded out of breath. “We’ve met before.” He smiled, and felt how it trembled. “I’ll explain if you give me a chance.”

He had her now, he knew. Or if anything, he had her curious, but he was glad to see he hadn’t won her over completely, from the faint trace of suspicion still on her face. _Smart kid_.

“Why should I trust you?” she asked, her gaze fleeting to the unconscious drunk at his feet.

“Yeah, you really shouldn’t, now that I think about it,” he murmured, and knew she’d caught it from the way she arched a brow, as though he’d just proved her right. But there was really no way of going about this that didn’t make him come off as a shady creep.

She looked ready to bolt again, and he’d opened his mouth before he even knew what he meant to say.

“You must be hungry!”

He watched as she paused, before she peered down at him suspiciously. “I’m not hungry,” she lied.

“I heard your stomach growling from two streets over,” Ace countered. “How do you think I tracked you down so easily? A loudspeaker would make less noise.”

Her cheeks coloured at that, and in that moment she was her mother’s spitting image. Curiously, the sight gave him confidence.

“My guess is you haven’t eaten in a while,” he chanced, sensing that he was on the right track.

“So what if I haven’t?” she asked pertly, and he saw Makino in the way she lifted her chin, too; that flash of stubbornness in the demure purse of her lips. “I don’t need to eat. A warrior of my calibre can go _days_ without eating.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Ace said, smiling. “But what if I told you I could get you a seven course meal at the best restaurant in town?”

He saw the doubt that knit her brows, even as she didn’t succeed in stifling the flicker of intrigue in her expression, or the hunger in her eyes as she licked her lips. And that brow was Red-Hair’s, Ace saw, like the mouth and the hair.

Her eyes glanced down to the snake around her neck, and for a moment she appeared to be considering his offer. Then, lifting her eyes back to his, “I would owe you,” she said.

“Just a conversation,” Ace assured her, his hands held out before him, palms up. A show of deference, before he added—a little glibly, because he couldn’t help himself—“And I won’t turn you over to the authorities for trying to steal my wallet. That’s not a bad deal.”

There was no dousing that curiosity now, and she didn’t deny the charge laid against her this time. “How would you even pay for it?” she asked instead, as her gaze shifted to the pocket of his shorts, and the wallet she’d tried to steal earlier. “You don’t look like you have a lot of money.”

He refrained from pointing out that she’d still been prepared to rob him blind in cheerful spite of it. “I don’t.” When her doubtful look turned to outright suspicion, although still without losing that underlying intrigue, Ace grinned, and went in for the kill.

“Have you ever dined and dashed?”

 

—

 

It wasn’t yet morning when she made to leave their encampment, the sun at least an hour from rising and the night still holding court in the darkest corners.

She hadn’t slept a wink, lying awake with her thoughts as she listened to the forest, reaching through the vast sprawl of it within her mind towards the opposite shore, even though they were too far away for her to pick out anything but a vague impression of life. And the watch would have caught their approach and alerted them in good time, Makino knew, but it was only partly out of fear she’d kept such close vigilance, although it had taken her hours just to name the other feeling, along with the realisation that they weren’t coming; not Red-Hair, or any of his crew. He’d left her be, like he’d said he would. The choice in her hands.

She’d made her decision before the night was over, and had risen before the sun could, to shed enough light on her senses that she’d talk herself out of it.

She dressed in the half dark, fastening buckles and laces with the quick efficiency of muscle memory, before tying back the loose strands escaping her heavy braid with her scarf. She’d changed out of her regalia, her fighting leathers more comfortable. It was lighter armour than her silver breastplate, and more practical. Her outer layers kept out the chill that had crept ashore from the sea, but the dagged sleeves and the slit skirts of her dress allowed her to move unencumbered. She’d strung her bow, and counted her arrows. If she had to fight her way out, she’d come prepared.

The forest was too quiet to offer any kind of comfort, and in the ghostly gloom right before the break of dawn it seemed to hold its breath, the wispy mist clinging to the crooked trees like spiderwebs, or a widow’s veil. The air tasted of salt and sap, and she blinked her eyes against the moisture in the air; a drizzle so soft it seemed to sigh against her cheeks, leaving them wet.

She left the camp sleeping, her steps softened by the forest floor, blanketed with a moss so green it seemed to glow, even in the dim light. She spared no thought to the watch, somewhere in the trees above, but they didn’t stop her as she made to leave, or rouse the others to alert them of her intentions, even though they had to know what she was planning.

Of course, there was one whose objection she’d expected, and had been prepared to face.

“You will regret it,” spoke the voice, stopping her in her tracks on the very edge of their camp, and Makino turned to find Hancock by the entrance to the makeshift tent they’d scrounged together from the ship’s sails. Their eyes met, as Hancock said, “Unravelling that thread.”

Makino turned towards her. In the murky light, she looked terrifying, like some fey, wild thing shaped from the shadows between the trees, an almost haunting quality to the sight of her, her long black hair unbound and her expression cut from marble. Looking at her, Makino didn’t find the rumours about her at all unfounded; the woman who turned hearts to stone, from fear if nothing else.

But she’d never quailed before Hancock. Makino doubted she would have been given her post if she was so easily cowed as that.

“You know who he is,” Makino told her. “You _saw_ him.”

“Yes,” Hancock confirmed. Then with her lips pressed together, admitted, “I have suspected it to be the case for some time.”

Makino’s breath rushed out in a shudder. “What?”

Hancock’s expression didn’t budge. “The auction house,” she said. “That was no coincidence.” She arched a brow. “I’m surprised you’ve never considered there might be a connection.”

Makino didn’t answer, suddenly unable to think past that remark to summon a response. Why had she never considered it?

She shook her head, still watching Hancock, who looked wholly unapologetic about what she’d just revealed; the secret she’d been keeping, when there had never been any between them. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her look turned wry at that, loosening some of the tightness around her eyes. “What would you have done if I had told you I suspected the father of your child to be one of the Four Emperors?”

Makino opened her mouth to retort, before she closed it. Because the answer was the same to that question as to the one she’d asked herself. She’d never picked at that thread, had never made that connection, because she knew part of her wouldn’t have believed it. Even now, having met Red-Hair, having witnessed his reaction, the suggestion seemed too far-fetched to be true. How could she ever have known a pirate like that?

But even thinking it, she couldn’t forget the look on his face—the relief when he’d looked at her, and the hurt when she hadn’t recognised him. The courtesy he’d shown in giving her control of the situation, when he could so easily have claimed it without asking or apologising. Their whole crew wouldn’t have stood a chance against him, Makino was sure of that, and yet he hadn’t lifted a finger to any of them.

It made her wonder.

“I need to see him,” she said. There was a greater truth in that simple statement than the words themselves revealed.

Hancock caught it, but said nothing as she watched her, before she asked, “You are sure?”

Makino nodded. “I need to know. And—he seemed in earnest.”

Hancock sniffed, “Men often do. That does not mean they are.”

“Maybe not,” Makino agreed. “But—if he is who I think—”

“He is,” Hancock said.

“Well, then I need to know!”

The outburst had probably woken their whole camp, but she didn’t care. If Hancock wouldn’t stop her, the others wouldn’t try. And if Hancock had harboured suspicions about her daughter’s parentage, she might not have been the only one.

Makino didn’t know what to do with that information—the thought that they might have all been keeping it from her. She felt short of breath thinking about it, even if she didn’t know what difference it would have made, knowing. Would she have sought him out? She couldn’t imagine it.

But the opportunity was at her fingertips now. Red-Hair had given it to her, if she wanted it. She couldn’t just turn away from that.

“I don’t know anything about my past,” she told Hancock. “At least now I might get some answers.”

“You trust him to tell you the truth?” Hancock asked.

Makino didn’t hesitate. “If he doesn’t, I’ll know.” She was good at that; detecting lies. An odd paradox, given that she was so terrible at concealing her own, but Red-Hair would have to be an excellent liar if he thought he could look her in the eye and tell her an untruth, and then convince her it wasn’t that.

She thought of his face again; the one where she found her daughter so clearly, and that she’d tried to remember for ten years. And she remembered the way he’d looked at her, the naked desperation in his expression, even as she still didn’t know what he’d been to her. Had he been a master worse than the slavers? She’d heard her share of rumours of the Emperors, some of whom conquered more than just territory. She knew the stories they told of Big Mom’s children, whose parentage hinted at darker truths than most dared to speculate aloud.

Hancock’s look didn’t soften, and Makino knew she’d been thinking along the same lines, even before she asked, “And if you don’t like the answers you get?”

She considered the question, and everything it implied, before she shook her head. She’d already made her decision. There was no going back now that she knew who he was; her life had changed irrevocably whether she’d wanted it to or not. And living without answers while knowing half the truth was worse than knowing nothing at all. She’d spent ten years trying to fill the gaps in her memory with speculations. She couldn’t imagine living ten more, knowing what she did now but not the whole story. Even if the truth turned out to be worse than what her imagination could conjure.

“At least I’ll know,” she said. She was certain about nothing but this one thing. “I want to _know_.”

Hancock just looked at her, her face as unyielding as her presence, surrendering nothing. But then, “I could order you to remain,” she told her.

“I know,” Makino said. “But you won’t.”

Another beat, heavy where it fell between them. “No,” Hancock said. And this was no surrender, either; merely a mutual acceptance. “I will not.”

Makino bowed her head. “Thank you.”

She'd turned to leave when Hancock’s voice stopped her. “Makino.” When she glanced over her shoulder, Hancock said, with the calm weight of a command, “You will not be caught.”

Makino set her jaw, and nodded. She felt the familiar weight of her bow around her chest, and her quiver of arrows, each one whittled with her own two hands. She knew exactly how many seconds it would take her to reach the shortsword on her hip, and the needle-thin dagger hidden in the thick folds of her braid, tucked under her scarf. She’d die before she was taken again.

“I won’t.”

Turning away from Hancock, she didn’t look back as she walked through the trees, to lose herself in the shadows before the morning washed the forest clean of them.

It didn’t take her long to cross the length of the island, following the path they’d walked the day before as she weaved through the trees, the foliage growing thicker as she slipped under the curling branches that draped across the forest floor like court ladies across their divans, keeping a steady pace and her attention fixed on his presence in her mind, the way she’d learned to recognise it; that bright thread of warmth within her leading the way, as though following an inner compass.

She felt her heart in her throat, beating a steady rhythm with the blood in her ears, loud in the eerie quiet as she picked her way through the underbrush, until she’d reached the opposite end of the island to where they’d made their camp, the thick cluster of trees yielding bit by bit, until she spied the sea in the distance, and a sky that had been washed dove-grey by the approaching dawn.

The storm had quieted, and the restless sea lay unmoving, as though asleep, the horizon in the distance limned with gold in anticipation of a sunrise. Released from the oppressive silence of the forest, she heard the water where it whispered in the shallows; the muted babble like gossip murmured to the awaiting shore, speculating her arrival.

Red-Hair’s ship was anchored by the waterside, and seized her gaze as she approached. It was an imposing vessel, befitting an Emperor, although it sat on the water with an ease that defied its size and build, a sleekness to the shape of it that invoked the serpents of her home; the great beasts that commanded the sea, kings in their own right.

It towered above her where she craned her neck to look at it, feeling small in the shadow cast by its massive bulk. From the prow arched a figurehead in the shape of a rearing dragon, the wood a bright, glossy red and engraved with similar designs as the rest of the ship, the wood trimmings around the hull intricately carved, red with white details, and decorative fittings in the shape of waves curling and tossing, cresting from the prow and along the hull under the balusters. She spied a row of cannons, and a vast deckhouse with a bank of windows around the stern where the captain’s quarters were, above which had been planted several palm trees, which would have seemed a curious addition to any other vessel, but not to this one; a pirate lord’s ship, so bold and fantastical it might have been plucked straight out of the pages of a fairy tale.

Her daughter would have loved it.

The sails were rolled up, although she saw the jolly roger where it peered down at her from its perch atop the mainmast, stirred by the breeze that tickled the air. She saw the white skull and crossed swords, and the three distinctive scars that were usually enough to send most people running in the opposite direction, but she held her ground. She’d come this far, and she refused to quail at rumours now.

She took a moment just to observe the ship where it waited in the water. Despite the early hour, most of the people on board were awake; Makino felt them within the crew’s quarters and out on deck, sorting through them all in her mind, their captain’s still the strongest presence, although she tried to ignore it now, and didn’t know if it was because it was just so assertive that she felt it so strongly, or because she was subconsciously looking for it.

There was a correct way to go about this, requesting permission to come aboard before she did, but she couldn’t allow herself to show any form of weakness or submission, or to give him even the smallest chance to gain the upper hand. If she was setting foot aboard his ship, it was going to be on her own terms.

With a fortifying breath, she steeled herself, before setting off at a run, her steps light and soundless as she covered the distance to the moorings where they'd dropped the anchor, her presence as unobtrusive as her approach, trickling through the cracks in their defences, becoming one of the shadows dancing along the hull as she scaled the side of the ship with a breath, a graceful wraith stealing aboard with the last of the dark, her fingers gripping one of the balusters as she swung herself over the side.

She landed on the railing, lithe as a cat and just as silent, and startling the pirate who’d been in the process of relieving himself over the side. He gave a strangled shout at the sight of her, before he toppled backwards on his ass, his legs tangled with his unlaced breeches as he floundered to pull them up his hips, scrambling away from her.

Those out on deck were quick to react, most going for their weapons, although Makino hadn’t drawn any of hers, observing them instead calmly from her perch, and it didn’t take them long to recognise her—and for their shock to yield to surprise, and then to something she didn't have a name for, although that might just be because part of her didn’t want to look for it.

A figure dropped down from the crow’s nest with a nimbleness that drew her gaze and held it. She spied the rifle strapped to his back, although he hadn’t moved to draw it, and she watched as he straightened to his full height, his eyes having seized hers as though through a scope.

She recognised him as the one who’d been the first to address her the day before; the one who’d called her name. His skin was as dark as Aster's, and he wore his dark blond hair in intricate dreads, pulled back from his face with a headband. His presence was a fixed point, like a bull’s eye in her mind, and his eyes were similarly sharp where they took her in, not with suspicion, although it was still an assessment.

The pirates around him were all looking at her, and she knew the name of that feeling now, finding it reflected back from their expressions, before they fell, and she realised with a painful stab within her that they’d hoped she’d recognise them.

She focused on the pirate in front of her, with those keen eyes. He hadn't said anything, but then, and so quickly she'd barely caught his long fingers twitching, he'd reached to extract something from the satchel on his hip.

He held it out towards her, and it took Makino a second to realise it was her arrow.

She stared at the offering, unable to decipher the look behind his eyes, to decide if it was amusement or a challenge she found in them, but before she could think about what either of those things meant, she'd reached out to take it, her fingers curled around the shaft as she plucked it from his hand before slipping it calmly back into her quiver, not once dropping her gaze from his.

He didn't quite smile, although it was dangerously close to one. It felt, curiously, like an introduction, although he'd yet to speak a single word to her. And she'd said nothing, but then she didn’t need to; not to announce her intentions or to ask them to notify their captain. Red-Hair had already sensed her; Makino had felt it the moment she’d come aboard, that tentative mental touch, but had shut him out before he could get too greedy.

She tried not to think about the implication; that he was familiar with more than just the sight of her.

A door opening announced his arrival, and then he was striding out on deck, along with more members of his crew, who seemed to have come from the galley, and some straight from their sleeping quarters, but Makino spared them only a passing glance, her gaze having locked with Red-Hair’s the second he stepped out on deck.

He looked like he’d had the day before, his attire unchanged, and she had the sudden impression that he hadn’t slept, and wondered, surprised, if he’d stayed awake waiting for her.

She didn’t know what to feel about the look on his face—the relief and the hope in it, neither of which left any room for ambiguity, but she couldn’t tell if he meant for her to see them, or if he just couldn’t help it.

His gaze swept across her, taking her in, a different kind of assessment than he’d subjected her to before, not like he was trying to take in everything at once, but instead like he was reassuring himself of what he’d already committed to memory, reacquainting himself with the sight of her. And she might have expected him to leer, but there was no trace of it in his eyes or his presence as he took her in, her bow and quiver and her leather armour.

They paused a moment on the embroidered sleeves of her cloak, and then on her hair, taking in the red scarf wrapped around it, hiding her little dagger, and she had the impression that he knew it was there, although she couldn’t tell if he was making a mental note of all her weapons, or if it was something else that held his gaze, before it dropped to hers and stayed there.

“You came,” he said. His voice was rough, and she might have mistaken it to be from sleep if it hadn’t been for his expression.

It was hard to look at, but she refused to drop her gaze from his. “You offered to talk,” Makino said, and was relieved when her own voice remained steady, when she couldn’t seem to make her heart be the same. “I’m here to talk.”

They’d all gathered on deck now, drawn from their bunks or whatever occupations her arrival had interrupted. And it was a large crew he commanded, and she realised suddenly how exposed she was, the sole outsider on the deck of an unfamiliar ship, with every soul on board watching her, and all of them men.

She tried not to squirm, or to quail under their collective attention—to show that she was uncomfortable at the centre of so many gazes, even as she chafed, suddenly vividly aware of herself, and that she hated being on display more than anything. And this wasn’t the battle ring, where she controlled the audience. She didn’t feel like she was in power here, even as she’d been the one to seek him out.

Red-Hair had noticed her discomfort, Makino saw, and realised she wasn’t surprised when he nodded to the deckhouse behind him. “It’s warmer in the galley,” he said. His next words seemed to indicate his crew, even as he hadn’t taken his eyes off her. “Or we could do this in private, if it would make you more comfortable.”

He had a kind voice, she thought. A naturally warm baritone with rich inflections, it reminded her of Rayleigh’s, although in her defence, she only had one man in her whole acquaintance who hadn’t been a slaver or an auctioneer; a single point of reference that she didn’t immediately associate with cruelty. It wasn’t the least bit indicative of the man himself, and what he was like in truth.

Makino didn’t move from where she’d stepped down from the railing. The fresh sea air was thick with brine, and the wide-open sky a comfort she wasn’t about to relinquish, not for all the privacy in the world.

“I’m more comfortable having a clean exit,” she said, and saw how he _reacted_ to that, his expression stricken. And from the responses of his crew, he wasn’t the only one who’d been surprised by the remark.

“No one is going to keep you from leaving,” Red-Hair said, his expression as terrifying as his voice as he told her, fiercely, “I promise you that.”

“Promises aren't part of the currency of your world,” Makino countered, calmly but firmly. “So you’ll excuse me if I don’t hold that in much value.” She lifted her chin, although it didn’t make much of a difference. She didn’t have Hancock’s advantage in size and intimidation, and even with several paces between them, Red-Hair towered above her, made her feel small, which should by all rights make her uncomfortable, although for some reason, part of her resisted the feeling.

She didn’t rightly know what to make of that.

“I only have one condition,” Makino said, scrambling to keep her focus from slipping, along with her sense of control. “I’ll talk to you here, where I may leave as I choose. If that’s not acceptable, I’ll take my leave right now.” She didn’t touch her bow or the sword at her hip, but she didn’t have to for her conviction to be felt as she told him calmly, “Or I’ll fight my way out.”

It wasn’t a warning, just a fact, but she saw how they all responded to it, with outright disbelief, as though her assumption that they would keep her against her will had somehow hurt them.

She didn’t want to care. She didn’t owe them anything, least of all her courtesy. That she was showing it at all was due to nothing but a desire to be professional. It made her feel more in control, when she had so little to offer, up against one of the strongest crews in the world, who all apparently knew her. They had the advantage in both strength and knowledge. Makino refused to let them see her cower, or act in any way but calm and collected.

And yet she couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling, sensing their presences, their captain’s still the strongest—that she couldn’t make herself remain indifferent to their reactions, no matter how much she wanted to.

She blinked the thought away. “I’m here,” Makino said, when Red-Hair hadn’t spoken. “That will have to be enough.”

“You are,” he said, and so quickly she didn’t know which of her remarks he was referring to. But then he asked her, “Why are you here?”

Surprised, Makino frowned. Out of all the things she’d thought he might ask her, she hadn’t expected that; had thought he already knew why, given his offer of providing her with answers. Or maybe he was hoping the reason would be a different one.

He was still looking at her, his eyes roaming her face, and Makino wondered if he was hoping he’d find the answer he wanted there. She tried not to look directly at him, finding it suddenly difficult enduring the full force of his gaze. He was a man who commanded attention, and one who was entirely comfortable with it, the way she’d never been, and being at the centre of his focus made her feel suddenly short of breath.

Seeming to have forfeited his search, his look softened, although it wasn’t any easier to bear, still raw with hurt, and an emotion she didn't want to touch. “You don’t remember me,” Red-Hair said. It wasn’t a question.

Makino watched him, and tried again to search her memory, as she’d kept herself awake all night doing. She’d even tried to imagine different scenarios where their paths might have crossed, a hundred different ways two people might meet each other, but hadn’t been able to come up with even one plausible option where a man like him would have known someone like her, let alone intimately enough to conceive a child.

“No,” she said at length, when nothing stirred within her. The knot at the base of her ribs remained, remembering the darker alternatives she'd imagined. Regrettably, they were the ones that seemed the most likely. “But I know who you are.”

“Yeah,” Red-Hair said, with a short, humourless laugh. For some reason, it sounded wrong. “That much I figured. But you don’t _know_ me.”

She didn’t answer that, and for a moment he only looked at her, as though he could somehow compel her to remember if he stared at her deeply enough.

“Why don’t you remember?” he asked, quietly. “I can’t—I don’t understand. I _need_ —”

He didn’t strike her as an inarticulate man. The rumours about him didn’t say he was, rather the opposite, but he seemed to have trouble finding his words now, the questions stumbling over his tongue, his frustration evident, as though he had too many to ask and couldn’t decide where to begin.

Makino knew the feeling, even as she didn’t allow herself to feel sympathy for him, although it was hard when he was looking at her like that.

“I don’t know how it happened,” she said, after a lull had passed between them. The words were familiar, having spoken them so many times, and to so many people, although everyone on Amazon Lily knew her story now. “I don’t know if it was an injury or something else, but my first memory is waking up on a slave ship.”

She saw from his face that this wasn’t news to him, although he was far from unaffected, hearing her say it, as she admitted quietly, “I don’t remember anything of my life before that.” And she could place his expression now—knew _anger_ when she saw it, although the underlying hurt seemed somehow fiercer.

She didn’t like what it did to his face. Somehow, she had the impression it didn’t suit it, although it was a knowledge that had no evidence to back it up.

She still couldn’t remember. Even looking at him, there was nothing. She’d hoped once that something from her past might trigger her memories into returning, but even now, nothing stirred within her, the bottomless depths of her memory untouched.

“You knew,” she said then. She was certain of that, even if she had no memories of him. He knew what had happened to her.

Red-Hair nodded. “There was a pirate raid,” he said, the words heavy, like he’d been carrying them a long time. “You were captured.”

She didn’t know what she’d expected the truth to do. She didn’t feel surprise hearing it, but then she’d suspected it might have been something like that. And even knowing how she’d ended up on that ship, it still didn’t explain who she’d been before, or what kind of life she’d lived. Had she been a pirate?

“I’ve been looking for you for ten years,” Red-Hair said then.

Her eyes flew up, startled, but when she found his there was no deceit in them; just a hard, hurting truth.

She shook her head, like she couldn’t understand what he was saying. Which wasn’t far from how she was feeling. “Why?”

Something like a disbelieving laugh left him. “ _Why_?” he asked, his voice rough. “Because I lost you.”

“You say that like I was yours to lose,” Makino countered. Then, carefully, unsure if she even wanted to know, “Was I?”

The anger had bled out of his expression, but the grief that remained looked like an open wound. “You could say that,” Red-Hair said. His features tightened, before he added, softly, “Or at least you would have said that, once.”

Makino didn’t answer, just watched him—took in the sight of him, and tried to reconcile it with the image she’d had of him, before all of this. He was tall and powerfully built, but there was nothing monstrous about him. His shirt was untucked and buttoned halfway, revealing a muscular chest, and he was clad in a simple pair of shorts and sandals and a high-collared black cloak, suggesting an informality that didn’t bother with the pretence of grandeur some of the other Emperors boasted.

His missing arm wasn’t immediately apparent, but she noticed the way the cloak draped over his left shoulder. His right arm hung at his side, the sleeve of his shirt rolled up to his bicep, revealing cords of sinewy muscle and the veins in his strong forearm. A red sash hung low on his hips, holding up his sword, but he hadn’t touched it. Makino took in the wide, curved handle against his broad hand, feeling a spark of curiosity entirely despite herself, knowing the rumours as she did and the living legend they portrayed, even as he’d yet to do anything to confirm them. For all that she’d attacked him outright, he still hadn’t lifted a hand to her, let alone his sword.

Her eyes glanced off the slip of fabric tied around the hilt, and she frowned. It looked like a scarf, the fabric worn and the red flower-pattern faded from wear. It seemed a curious detail for a man who wore no other adornments.

Red-Hair had noticed what she was looking at, and she watched his fingers where they twitched at his side, the tendons in his forearm flexing, even as he did nothing, not to draw his sword or to hide it, but Makino wasn’t fooled by his disarming behaviour, or his deceptively casual appearance. A captain on deck, he radiated strength, his whole body seeming shaped from it; strong, thick muscles and broad shoulders, but he held himself with an ease that made it all seem effortless, like he was utterly comfortable with his place in the world, and the power that sang through her mind when she looked at him.

The sun that had been taking its time rising chose that moment to peek above the horizon, the grey light that had been softening by degrees suddenly warmed by the flare, and Makino felt her heart as she watched the pale glow stretch its rays across the deck to catch in his hair, easing away some of the shadows that had hardened the angles of his face.

He was strikingly handsome, even more than the papers made him out to be, with clear, grey-green eyes, and his cheeks shadowed with a neatly groomed beard, the thick stubble black where his hair was red. He wore it pulled back from his face, and she tried not to notice how it curled gently under his ears. The characteristic scars bisecting his left eye stood out, stark against his sun-darkened skin, the grooves deepened by the frown that marred his brow, high and regal, and that, too, achingly familiar.

And she didn’t know what he looked like smiling, but could imagine it well enough, remembering her daughter. She could imagine what it might do to his face, and that wide, expressive mouth; how it would reshape it, creasing the corners of his eyes and deepening the laugh-lines there.

She swallowed, and before she could lose her courage, asked, “What was I to you?”

Red-Hair just looked at her, and for a brief moment Makino wondered if he was going to lie, or at least attempt to, but then he did something she didn’t expect.

“Everything,” he said simply, and her breath caught.

All the scenarios she’d imagined in her head, the ten years she’d spent re-learning who she was, not knowing who she’d been once, or whose, and she’d never imagined this. That a man like that, a pirate _that_ powerful, was the missing link. And he’d been searching for her. All this time she’d wondered if there was someone who missed her, who was looking for her, but she'd never been able to bring herself to believe it was actually the case, and now that she knew, didn’t know what to do with the knowledge, and everything it implied.

Ten _years._

His answer seemed to linger in the air between them, amplified by the silence of the crew on deck, and Makino was having trouble catching the breath he’d stolen.

“You—” Red-Hair said then, the rasp of his voice claiming her focus where it had slipped her grasp, only to find an entirely new look on his face. “When you were taken, you were pregnant.”

The words struck her, and she couldn’t keep herself from flinching back from them, and the truth she’d feared; that he’d known about that, too.

She tried to keep her face blank, but knew she hadn’t succeeded from the way his own changed, and the fierce relief that shaped it. And she knew what it meant—knew that her reaction had already answered his implied question, about what had happened to the baby.

Still, Makino considered her response before she said, quietly, “I was.”

She’d tried to keep her answer from giving away the whole truth, but he already knew what she hadn’t said. Watching at him, Makino was certain of that, but the look on his face still begged her to confirm what he looked almost afraid to believe. That her child had lived, and was still alive.

She should lie, Makino knew. To protect her daughter, she should tell him she’d lost her, severing the fragile bond that still remained between them, and that would be there as long as her little girl drew breath. That was what she should do, the knowledge gripped her with a sudden fierceness, stubbornly resisting any other alternative, but even knowing it, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, and couldn’t seem to breathe past the knot that had formed in her throat at what he’d told her.

He’d been looking for her for ten years.

She tried to imagine their positions flipped, but couldn’t. She couldn’t even conceive spending a decade searching for her daughter, not knowing if she was alive or dead. And she still didn’t know why he had, or what could have prompted him to go to such lengths, but when she considered lying to him, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

And Rowan was safe on Amazon Lily. Even if she told him the truth, he wouldn’t be able to find her. Makino would make sure of that.

“I have a daughter,” she said at length.

His breath rushed out like it had been ripped from his chest, but he didn’t look surprised, she saw, just relieved, although it didn’t look like a kind relief, the way he looked at her, as though still hoping for something.

She still didn’t know what to make of that, or of any of it—of him, or his reaction. His whole crew, who were all still looking at her, their expressions echoing what she found in their captain’s face.

She wished suddenly that they’d stop—wished that they’d all stop looking at her like they _knew_ her, when she couldn’t pin a name to a single face.

Red-Hair looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t know what. And it was hard reconciling his reaction with the things she’d always feared, imagining the father of her child, and how she’d come to be.

And she knew the truth now, but it wasn’t enough. It still didn’t answer the question she wanted to know more than anything; if the girl she loved more than her own life had been the result of the worst kind of violation, or something else. His reaction was suggestive of devotion, although that wasn’t much of an assurance. A master could love a pet.

She had to know. “Was it—”

She couldn’t get the words out. Not with Red-Hair and every member of his crew looking at her. And in that moment, briefly, Makino regretted not having taken him up on the offer of talking somewhere private, where they didn’t have a whole audience for this conversation. She’d thought it would give her an advantage, putting him on the spot with his men watching, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Red-Hair frowned. “Was it what?” he asked, still with that kind voice she didn’t know if she liked or hated, the deep rumble of it seeming to invite trust.

Makino hesitated, before she finally said, “Consensual. Her—conception.”

The way his face changed caught her by surprise, his handsome features wiped clean of that achingly affected look, leaving something akin to horror. Makino saw the same was the case for the men behind him, their shock like a wave where it tore across the whole deck. Even the man who’d talked to her earlier, the one with the scar on his temple whose expression surrendered nothing else, looked like he'd been caught off guard by the question.

Red-Hair was gaping, although it was far from comical with that terrifying expression accompanying it. “Was it _consensual_?” he asked, his voice flung out from him now, loud with disbelief. “Of course it was consensual, what did you thi—”

He stopped himself, as though he had the answer; as though he’d realised exactly what it was she’d thought.

His expression this time was worse. And this wasn’t anger, although Makino didn’t know what to call it if not that, the terrible thing that made his eyes widen, and had his breath stuttering, like he’d been struck speechless.

No one uttered a word. She thought they seemed too stunned to speak.

She felt that flicker of guilt from before, even as she resisted the feeling. She didn’t know any of these people. Even if they claimed differently, even if the truth was _different_ , it didn’t change the fact that she couldn’t remember them. She couldn’t remember their captain, or the events that had led to her daughter being conceived; couldn’t remember the things she found reflected in his eyes, that put that expression on his face when he looked at her. She didn’t know if she’d ever felt even a shred of the same feelings for him that he revealed to her now. If she had, she couldn’t recall it, and didn’t know if she wanted to.

But even if it hadn’t been love, or anything close to it, it had been with consent. Looking at Red-Hair, whose presence hid nothing from her, she didn’t doubt that he’d been telling the truth, although Makino couldn’t make herself consider everything his reaction implied; the reason he was so hurt by her asking. Another man might have taken offence to the suggestion that he’d forced himself on someone, but that wasn’t what she found on his face.

“I’m glad,” she said then, the words escaping her before she could swallow them back down. She almost couldn’t bear looking at him; the raw emotion on his face, and the hurt in his eyes. And it wasn’t for himself, she saw. It was for her, although that didn’t make it any easier. “I had wondered.”

Someone in his crew let slip a startled oath, the harsh sound of it jolting the uneasy quiet, and Makino tried not to flinch, feeling suddenly that she’d made a mistake—that she’d done something wrong, and that she’d said too much.

She didn’t know how to wrest back control of the situation, the one she’d felt so certain of earlier; didn’t know what to _do_ now that she had her answer, the one she’d wanted to know for so long. And she still had more questions, about who she’d been and where she’d come from, and what kind of life she’d lived—about who he’d been to _her_ , even if part of her shied away from the thought—but she couldn’t find her voice to ask any of them.

Her hands shook, and she felt _exposed_ now, but for a completely different reason, feeling with sudden conviction that she’d revealed too much, telling him about Rowan, and letting slip that old fear she’d carried so long.

Regret burned on her tongue, and it felt like something had wrapped around her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs, but she still couldn’t look away from him, suddenly and inexplicably greedy for his reactions, and the things she found in them. The things she’d wanted to know for ten years, and now that she knew, she didn’t want to stop, wanted more still, wanted to know _everything_ , gluttonous with the need, even as it terrified her, giving him that kind of power; giving him more than she already had.

She wanted to run. She wanted to _scream_ , but couldn’t uproot her voice. She couldn’t breathe with the pressure around her chest.

A tattooed hand wrapped around her shoulder, jerking her loose of her stupor, and she was so surprised she forgot to pull free as her eyes flew up to meet the ones looking down at her, belonging to a man she hadn’t noticed before.

“Breathe,” he ordered calmly. He had a no-nonsense attitude that didn’t brook any arguments, and the grip on her shoulder wasn’t to keep her as much as it was to keep her standing. In the sunlight, the tattoos wrapping around his forearms stood out, and she centred her focus on them as she fought to draw air into her lungs.

“There you go,” he said, when Makino had regained control of her breathing. He released her shoulder, before he took a step back from her, the gesture significant despite the liberties he'd already taken in touching her.

“You can call me Doc,” he told her, the corner of his mouth quirking when she blinked up at him, easing some of the hardness from his face. “Seeing as reintroductions are in order.” He glanced back towards his captain, and she didn’t catch what passed between them, but she saw the hurt that flashed through Red-Hair’s eyes.

He hadn’t moved towards her, and he looked torn between decisions, and like he wanted to say something, but Makino felt suddenly relieved when he didn’t. She was still unsure of what to make of it all, of him, and she needed time to collect herself before she decided how she felt, and if she trusted his version of the truth. And if she did, what it meant for her, and her daughter.

But before she could decide on anything, her senses alerted her to someone approaching, and her head snapped around, noting the distress in their presences, bright even from a distance as they closed in on the ship, and with an urgency that told her something had happened long before they'd even reached her. For a brief moment, Makino wondered if Hancock had changed her mind, and had sent them to stop her after all.

Red-Hair had sensed them as well, although he seemed too distracted to acknowledge their arrival with more than a fleeting glance, but Makino felt as his crew’s attentions left her to take in the new arrivals, the release like a weight lifting off her, even as Red-Hair’s remained, seeming heavier than all of them combined.

The Kuja landed on the railing to her right. They didn’t have their weapons drawn, but there was an unmistakable purpose to their arrival, reflected on their faces as Sweet Pea exclaimed, “Commander!” She sounded out of breath, as though she’d sprinted the whole length of the island. “Kikyo called,” she said. “It’s Rowan.”

Makino felt as her heart plummeted through her chest, a hundred different scenarios springing up all at once, each one worse than the last, but none of them as terrible as the truth when Sandersonia confirmed it. “She’s gone.”

For a confused moment, Makino just stared at her, and the group who’d arrived—Daisy and Sweet Pea, and Rindo, watching the pirates behind her warily, although Makino wasn’t thinking about them, her back turned and her guard dropped completely, unable to focus on anything but what they’d just told her.

“Gone?” she asked, her voice a shiver, before it broke over the words as she blurted, “What do you mean she’s _gone_?”

Exchanging a look with Sweet Pea, Sandersonia shook her head, as though there was no better explanation for it. “She left. Stowed away on a ship, they think. Kikyo said she's going after her, but they don’t know where she might be, and—”

She stopped, as though sensing her explanation wasn’t making things better, although Makino could do nothing but stare at her with continued disbelief. She couldn’t seem to wrap her head around what she was saying. She’d _left_?

“Rowan?” Red-Hair asked then, and the sound of her daughter’s name in his voice shot through her like a bullet as Makino spun back towards him, only to find his expression wrought, and she realised belatedly that the emotion on his face was recognition. “Is that her name?”

She couldn’t even shake her head to deny it; couldn’t seem to focus on both him and what they’d just told her, and least of all how they were connected. But she felt the dread where it gripped her, realising abruptly that she’d revealed far more than she was comfortable with, and that there was no taking it back now that he knew. She’d wanted to protect her daughter, to keep as much information she could to herself, to have _some_ kind of leverage over the man who still had her at a disadvantage, but now she’d given him everything, and Rowan was _gone._

There were too many things happening, too fast for her to keep up. It left her reeling, and the breath she’d reclaimed wanted to escape her again.

Forcing her thoughts away from Red-Hair, she turned back to the other Kuja. “She stowed away?” she asked Sandersonia, as though hoping she’d somehow tell her differently; that she’d misspoken earlier, even as Makino knew she hadn’t. But she didn’t want to believe it—didn’t want to know what those words meant, or what they suggested. “ _How_?”

Sandersonia lifted her shoulders, as though to indicate she wasn’t any wiser.

“She’s ten years old,” Makino snapped, as though it made a difference; as though it would somehow make it any less true. Her voice was a thin thread of disbelief, strung tight with anger, like a bowstring pulled past its limit. “How could she have left?” How could they have _let_ her?

It was rapidly dawning on her; the fact that her daughter wasn’t safe on Amazon Lily, but somewhere out at sea, _alone_. And she didn’t know if the knot lodged at the bottom of her throat was a curse or a sob, thinking of her girl—that reckless, brave little heart that didn't know how to be afraid, even when it should. She had no idea what awaited in the world beyond the shore where she’d been raised; didn’t know about the terrible things that lurked in it. She’d grown up believing that beasts could be identified by hide and fangs; she didn’t understand the danger that _humans_ posed to each other, because Makino had never told her.

Her breath hitched with a stutter, the worst possible scenarios rushing through her head, along with memories she’d spent the past ten years trying to forget. And it didn't matter that she was just a child. Hancock had only been two years older when she’d been captured.

The thought ripped through her whole body, and Makino feared she might be sick all over the deck.

Her chest hurt, shock and a growing panic making it difficult to draw breath, and her head spun so fast it left her dizzy, old memories shoving to the forefront of her mind, imagining her daughter in the hold of a slaver, or on an auction house stage. She'd been safe in her belly last time, a pathetic means of protection, maybe, but it had been _something_. Now, Makino didn't even know where she was, and couldn't protect her with anything. If she was captured, she might never find her.

She forgot everything else—forgot Red-Hair and his whole crew, and the truth she was still coming to terms with. She forgot whose ship she was on, and what she’d come there to do; forgot herself and that she hadn’t wanted to show any signs of weakness. In that moment she couldn’t have tempered her reaction if she’d tried her hardest.

“I have to find her,” Makino said, her voice lashing out, not a shiver now, but it had barely struck the quiet when her breath seized, along with a sudden realisation. “No—the ship. How are we supposed to—” She stopped, and with her heart sinking, “The mission,” she breathed, and saw from the way their features tightened with regret that they’d already thought about that, and that they knew what she hadn't said aloud—that even if they’d had a sea-ready ship at hand, they couldn’t all abandon their orders, not even for Rowan. Not with the fate of their whole tribe at stake.

“Then take mine.”

Her head whipped around, her eyes wide, only to find Red-Hair looking at her, his expression hardened with the same conviction she’d heard in his voice, stealing her elusive breath.

“Use my ship,” he said, seeming emboldened now that he’d made the offer. His eyes were bright, steel-grey in the cold sun that had climbed over the horizon. They looked determined now rather than desperate, although there was still a trace of it left as he told her, “She’s one of the fastest you’ll find on this sea. And we have a network on both sides of the Red Line. I’ll help you find her.”

Makino stared at him, her mouth working even as no words came out, although she didn’t know what she meant to say. She could barely understand what he was offering, even as he did so without a hint of hesitation, his voice as level as his gaze where it held hers, as though he had no intention of letting go. And she had no name for what she found in his eyes now, something that didn’t seem right for a man like him, one of the most powerful in the world, watching her as though _she_ was the one holding his life in her hands, but the significance was utterly lost on her.

She didn’t understand it, and she wasn’t prepared for the rough and intimate familiarity in his voice when he looked at her and asked, fiercely—

“Come with me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mom & Dad teaming up to save their kid is the kind of wholesome family drama you sign up for with me.
> 
> Next up: pining! oh, the pining.


	9. my heart, both tried and tested

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm rounding off 2018 with an extra big update! Here's hoping this coming year will be a good one. And a really heartfelt thank-you to everyone who's taken the time to leave a kind comment on my fics this year, whether it's this one or one of the others. I'm so grateful to all of you!

****Hancock’s eyes flashed; a livid, stormy blue. Sailors crossed themselves at gentler waters. “Out of the question.”

Red-Hair wasn’t backing down. A captain undaunted by rough sailing, although in this case it was hard to say if that reckless daring was admirable, or just plain stupid. “She’ll be safe.”

“With _you_?” Hancock scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“None of my men will hurt her,” Red-Hair countered, his voice hardened with a firm conviction that sought to leave no doubt. Makino felt the shiver it prompted, and resolutely kept from rubbing at her arms. “She will be _safe_.”

“She will be one woman alone on a ship full of _men_ ,” Hancock said, her voice raised to meet his, but the softer cadence was no less impactful as she looked at him and _hissed_ , “And the promises you make on behalf of your crew mean little when I don’t even trust _you_ to keep them.”

“Because I’m a man or because I am who I am?” Red-Hair asked. He was using what little advantage the few inches he had on her gave him, the steel in his eyes brandished as he stared her down.

Hancock seethed, no doubt having noticed. The word was spat like venom, her teeth bared, “Both.”

Red-Hair glared. Hancock challenged it, unflinching.

Makino observed the stand-off, restless fingers twitching with the growing urge to reach for her bow, even as she doubted there was much she could do if a fight broke out.

“My money’s on your captain,” the one whose name she’d learned was Yasopp slipped her a murmur from where he stood beside her. He had his arms crossed over his chest, projecting an image of complete ease, even as she saw the tense clench of his long-fingered hands, and knew he was prepared for the same thing she was—to intervene, if necessary.

To say the mood was tense would be a laughable understatement, but there was nothing remotely humorous about their confrontation, which teetered on a knife’s edge like it was about to topple off it, and with every breath, Makino was sure one of them would attack the other. It didn’t help that she knew neither would yield—and what was worse, that she knew just what it would take to loosen the deadlock, and that it wouldn’t make things better. Probably just the opposite.

The sun regarded them greedily from its lookout, seeming to hold on to their every word, like it had come out for the explicit purpose of eavesdropping. Golden-crowned, it presided over the shore, having shouldered its way past clouds and mist and even the morning shadows, which had fled to safety between the trees. The moss looked yellow here, draped like a knitted blanket over the grass, tiny blue flowers sprouting between the forest gold where it crept out from the crooked host of trees, which seemed marginally less menacing now that they'd shucked their misty cloaks to bask in the sun. The bad weather they’d endured since coming ashore felt like a distant memory, the sky swept clean of clouds like a ship’s deck of salt and grime, and not even a drizzle to soften the day's heat as it gathered momentum, although Hancock’s rising temper promised a far worse treatment than the sea had subjected them to, and without the mercy that had at least seen them escape by the skin of their teeth.

Before she could make good on that promise, “I’ve already decided,” Makino said calmly, and was glad when her voice remained steady; quietly authoritative, and  _felt_ , even as it held none of the force that bolstered both Hancock’s and Red-Hair’s rebuttals.

Red-Hair looked up, but Makino avoided his eyes, her own fixed on Hancock where she rounded on her, disbelieving. “You trust them? These _men_?”

The other Kuja seemed in agreement, all of them watching her with expressions of complete bewilderment. When she’d sent Sandersonia back with word of what she planned to do, she’d brought Hancock with her, along with the others, but then Makino hadn’t expected anything else.

For their parts, the Red-Hair Pirates were observing the confrontation with expressions varying from amazed to concerned to begrudgingly intrigued (although some weren't the least bit apologetic about it). And she still didn’t know any of them, but there was no sinister intent there. If nothing else, Makino was certain of that. She’d searched them all, every single presence like a thief’s pockets ransacked for evidence of a crime committed, but had found nothing. They didn’t mean her harm, and whatever else lay behind Red-Hair’s offer, it had been made in earnest. Even if she didn’t trust him, she trusted herself to be able to determine that much.

“I trust my own senses,” Makino said, chin tilted as she kept her gaze locked with Hancock's. “And my own judgement.”

Red-Hair said nothing, not to back up his earlier claim of assuring her safety, or to reiterate his offer of helping her. But then he struck her as a man who recognised when to speak and what to say, and there was the eloquence that had eluded him earlier, when he’d barely been able to get a word out.

No, Red-Hair knew he didn’t have to wax poetic to convince her, or to spin elaborate promises in order to compel her to agree. He knew as surely as he knew that their ship would take time to repair, that Makino didn’t have that kind of time to waste, and that she’d take him up on his offer for no other reason than because it was her only option. He knew she’d already decided, and that it was Hancock he had to convince, even as he seemed less inclined to get into her good graces than he did to butt heads with her, which usually meant a swift and brutal end as a petrified statue, although remarkably, he hadn’t once flinched away from Hancock’s gaze, like he knew perfectly well what she was capable of and couldn’t be inclined to give even half a fuck.

Makino looked at him, willing her gaze to settle on him without immediately fleeing to safety, but she wasn’t prepared for the determination on his face now, seeming somehow fiercer than even his regret, which she was still having trouble accepting.

He’d offered her to come with him, had offered her his ship and everything in his power, and even knowing it couldn’t be as simple as that, that there was no way there wasn’t a catch somewhere, he had _offered_. He had the means to help her, and the power to do more than most on this sea, which was in no small part _his_. And even more than that, he had incentive to do so—the little girl they had in common, the one thing that connected their fates, when her memory loss had severed whatever bond had once been between them; the one she found in his eyes whenever he looked at her, gripped like a lifeline when she wasn’t sure she even wanted to pull him up. And Makino didn’t know him, and didn’t trust him with her life, but her daughter’s…

Maybe.

It would mean allowing him to see her, she knew. There’d be no avoiding it if they found her together. Rowan would know who he was within a single glance, and Makino knew her daughter; knew she would want to know him, and that she would have no choice but to let her.

She didn’t know what she felt about that, or what it meant of her, and for Rowan. Would she be able to take her back to Amazon Lily after this? Would Red-Hair even let her? What would she do if he refused?

She chased that thought away before she could consider it too closely, forcing her elusive focus to centre on a single thing: her decision as she’d made it. And whatever came of it, she’d cross that bridge when she got there. For now, she just needed her daughter safe. Nothing else mattered.

Makino looked back at Hancock, meeting her gaze, and faced that violent sea head on. And it wasn’t a demand, or even a request, just the simple, unadorned truth when she said, “I need to find her, and we’re stuck here until we’ve fixed the ship. And after that, there’s still our orders from high command.” And this wasn’t news to Hancock, but she still felt like saying it; needed to stress the importance of _why_ she was doing this. “If I go with them, I have a chance of finding her, before—”

But she couldn't finish thinking it, let alone putting it into words, and so instead she said, simply, "You know why I have to do this."

Hancock’s expression revealed nothing, even as Makino knew she understood. If anyone did, it was Hancock.

The others wouldn’t understand why. They didn’t know their shared history, or why their Empress should concede to letting her leave. Only Marigold and Sandersonia’s expressions revealed understanding, although it was a grim one that didn’t delight in itself.

Hancock set her jaw, a statue’s cool appraisal, and Makino feared suddenly that her will would be equally immovable.

Her fears were confirmed a moment later, when Hancock said coolly, “I will not allow it.”

Her heart sank, and she knew her face revealed everything she was feeling, but Hancock’s expression didn’t budge, her will unbending, even as Makino saw the furrow between her brows, telling of the effort it took.

For a long beat, all they did was watch one another, a different deadlock although no less tense, the stakes as high as they’d ever been, and even if the top of her head barely reached Hancock’s chest, Makino refused to be cowed by it any more than her unforgiving expression.

“I won’t change my mind,” she said, her will no less unshakeable, no less set in stone.

Hancock’s eyes narrowed, a single muscle in her jaw tensing, even as she didn’t loosen her posture, still a snake poised to strike, its new prey smaller but no less fierce than the lion who’d come before it.

Makino saw as a decision was made in the slight deepening of her look. “Neglect of your duties to this tribe is punishable by death,” Hancock said, the surface of her expression calm even as her eyes churned with more things than could be spoken aloud. “You know this.”

Then, still with that same calm, “You may leave,” she said, and hope had just had the chance to blossom in her chest when Hancock raised her chin to look down her nose, her eyes flashing. “If you defeat me.”

A stunned hush fell over the other Kuja and Red-Hair’s men, but Makino didn’t drop her gaze from Hancock’s, and didn’t bother trying to hide her surprise, having exchanged it with determination before she’d drawn another breath, her heart steeled, even knowing what Hancock’s demand implied.

This wasn’t a challenge for the battle ring, one daring contender propositioning another for glory and honour. This wasn’t a match to hone their skills, or just to demonstrate them for the reckless pride of it. Only those who committed the gravest of sins met the Empress herself in a one-on-one match, which wasn’t so much a duel as it was a public execution.

This was her sentence. The price she had to pay for her choice. And Hancock didn’t like doing this, she knew, but understood the necessity—knew that anything else would be unfair; that she couldn’t just renounce her duties, her whole tribe, without consequences.

"So?" Hancock asked, her gaze flicking to Red-Hair, before settling on Makino, heavy like the damning weight of an executioner's axe. "Which do you choose?"

Makino didn't hesitate, only lifted her chin, the action invoking another choice, the years spanning that moment and this one as vast as the differences between the girl she’d been and the warrior she’d become, but the heart _choosing_ was the same, a steady battle-drum in her chest.

“I accept your challenge.”

 

—

 

Shanks watched as the two women faced off, the challenge proffered and accepted, and he could do nothing but observe as they got ready, seemingly for a duel, although the tension in the air promised something far deadlier.

They stood facing each other, a few feet between them, and their differences seemed only emphasised by the forced comparison; a vast gap in both height and build, with the Pirate Empress towering above her, as inhuman in appearance as the rumours portrayed her, cold as the sea and just as ruthless, and her expression untouched by even a single ripple of feeling.

In sharp contrast, Makino kept no secrets, the tight clench of her shoulders beneath her embroidered cloak revealing her thoughts, and her small frame tensed and ready, a keen awareness of her surroundings in the way she held herself, as though she’d already catalogued everything from the temperature to the wind, and how they could be used to her advantage. And he couldn’t see her face, but could imagine what it looked like, her features wrought with the same emotions her presence let slip, frustration and familiar, stubborn determination.

He watched as she shrugged the cloak off her shoulders, her arms slipped from the dagged sleeves, baring a simple dress with slit skirts and a leather bodice. The tight sleeves of the dress were laced from her wrists to her elbows and slit open at the shoulders, baring the pale freckles there, and a wide, vicious scar that shone even whiter than her skin. For a breathless moment, his whole attention was seized by it, like a sickle moon cresting the delicate curve. But Makino didn’t pay it any heed, and the pale colour suggested it was an old wound. Her hair gathered in a heavy bun at her nape, the thick folds of her braid intertwined with the red scarf she’d wrapped around her brow, to keep it out of her face.

Their observers had formed a circle around them, his own crew behind Makino, and the rest of the Kuja behind the Pirate Empress. She wasn’t armed as far as Shanks could see, not like Makino with her bow and arrows and the sword strapped to the small of her back, and the hidden blade she had tucked behind her scarf, but he’d heard enough about Boa Hancock’s powers to know what Makino would be facing.

As though on cue, Makino reached up, to the red scarf wrapped around her brow, dainty fingers slipping beneath the fabric, before pulling it down and over her eyes.

A round of surprised exclamations sounded from his crew, before a voice breathed, “The hell is she doing?”, and another, “Is she _insane_?”

“No,” Shanks said, watching Makino as she tightened the laces on her sleeves, and checked her quiver and bowstring, moving without a hindrance, as though the blindfold wasn’t even there. “It’s a safeguard.”

“The Gorgon’s curse,” Ben mused. “If you can’t look her in the eye, you can’t be turned to stone. Clever.”

“She’s gonna fight with a blindfold?” Lucky asked. Shanks noted absently that he wasn't eating.

Ben was the one who answered, “She always had a latent knack for observation.” He glanced at Shanks briefly. “And if she’s been trained in armament haki, it’s safe to assume she’s been trained in that, too.”

Yasopp let loose a low whistle. Like the others, he had his gaze fixed on Makino. “Mastered it is more like. That’s no rookie move.”

Shanks silently agreed. Her wordless demonstration of pulling down her scarf said enough, and he could _feel_ her focus, like a blade whetted, even sharper now than before she'd put on the blindfold, her calm waters undisturbed as she faced her opponent. She didn’t need her eyes to see.

One of the other Kuja stepped up, as though to act as an overseer. A squat woman with teal green hair and her eyes slitted like a snake’s, she considered the two contenders, before inquiring if they were ready, to which Makino nodded, while Hancock merely narrowed her eyes. There was a curious ceremony about it, and a familiar one, as though this was something they did often, although even with Makino’s ready acceptance, the tension in the surrounding Kuja’s expressions suggested this wasn’t standard procedure, but they acted as though it was; as though it was just two friends settling a dispute with their fists.

Shanks already knew it wasn’t, even before they’d leaped at each other, so fast and with so much _force,_ he felt the shockwave as it crashed against him when they connected, the pressure of the impact flattening the grass and making the trees groan as they bent and cracked, even shoving the water away from the shore, as though compelling the tide, and he felt the keening _hum_ in his gut as the air crackled with unleashed power.

Makino jumped back, landing nimbly on her feet, and had already prepared to deflect Hancock’s next advance, so quick to react even Shanks had to concentrate to keep up with her, a dainty hand raised to block the Pirate Empress’ leg where she’d lifted it in a sweeping arc, so much raw strength behind it, it left no question of why Boa Hancock fought barehanded.

But even if her own strikes didn't have the same brutal strength, Makino met her blow for blow—a bone-splintering jab to her collar evaded, before she’d ducked, using the advantage of her small size to ram her fist straight into Hancock’s stomach, shoving a hiss past her teeth, although she was quick to recover, and with another lethal sweep of her leg that would have shattered her ribs if Makino hadn’t leaped out of the way.

His fingers twitched towards Gryphon’s hilt, and the kerchief there, but he didn’t reach to touch either, forcing himself instead to remain still, and to observe. It wasn’t his place to intervene, even as it took everything he had not to want to do that, remembering the girl who’d been all softness and gentle hands, and watching the deadly blows exchanged with barely a breath between them.

But there was still a softness to her, Shanks found; water to her opponent’s stone, tiny and fleet-footed and breathlessly graceful, quick to dodge and even quicker to retaliate, an arrow loosed smoothly as a breath but with enough haki to slice the very particles in the air, snagging a lock of the Pirate Empress’ hair before it shot into the forest, followed by a loud, shattering sound as it made impact with an unsuspecting tree, startling a dark cloud of birds out of the canopy.

Shanks watched her, spellbound by the seamless movements, the light, balletic steps and the slender shape of her, her dark hair bound and her eyes covered, but each action like she _saw—_ as though she’d predicted what would come, the future known to her long before the rest of them could catch up. A decapitating sweep aimed for her head, and she’d already ducked to avoid it, and had sidestepped the follow-up before Shanks knew that Hancock would even make it, a third attack already anticipated before Hancock straightened with a snarl, her hand lashing out as a barrage of concentrated power shot from a pointed fingertip like a round of bullets. Makino dodged them all, feet dancing light and fast across the ground but with devastating precision, each bullet whizzing past, until she feinted a sharp left, before vaulting over the last salvo in a sideways somersault; a single, fluid motion as she twisted mid-air, her bow drawn and another arrow fitted and loosed before she'd even landed on her feet, nimble as a cat.

She was breathtaking.

Her aim this time wasn't as forgiving, and from the slight widening of her eyes, Shanks saw that Hancock only barely dodged the arrow, along with two of the Kuja in its uncompromising trajectory, but she didn’t flinch as it embedded itself into one of the trees, splitting it down the middle like parting a strand of hair. The two pieces came down with a resounding _boom_ , shaking the ground under their feet, but it didn’t faze either woman, although the Pirate Empress' expression had darkened visibly.

“You will do well to remember,” Hancock spat then, her voice like a crack of thunder where it shattered the air, “who taught you _that_!”

She slammed the heel of her foot into the ground, and Shanks had to steady himself as it split, like cloth ripped at the seams, and enough armament behind it to shake the whole foundation of the island.

He heard the others cursing as they fought to stay on their feet. They’d all moved back, the circle expanded like their battleground, half of which had caved in on itself, creating a hollow crater, but Makino shot forward, jumping between the crumbling stone and earth, so fast her feet had barely touched down before she’d moved again, using her own momentum to vault herself forward, unhindered by unsteady footing as she made for Hancock, who perched on a dislodged slab of rock on the other side.

Shanks saw her reaching for her sword, ostensibly to draw it, but before she could, she vanished.

He caught the flicker of surprise where it erupted across the Pirate Empress’ face, before Makino appeared behind her, so fast he’d barely been able to track the movement, her sword still sheathed but the hidden dagger slipped from her hair, and there was no time for Hancock to dodge it. Shanks didn’t think even he could have managed that.

But before the dagger could find its mark, the air rippled, a gust of _power_ released within the tenth of a second, and so violently it threw Makino back, and forced some of their audience to their knees, including half his crew, even as Shanks kept his spine straight and his feet grounded, and withstood the force when it slammed down atop him.

Conqueror’s haki was always different, unique to its wielder, and he'd never felt the like of this, that iron-clad  _control_. Some wielders didn’t bother with that, throwing it around without thought or strategy, believing it somehow more powerful that way, in its undiluted form, but Hancock’s haki was like a beast loosened of its shackles—not unleashed, and never enough for it to slip its bindings, just barely enough to allow it to snap its jaws, but therein was what made it so compelling; a will that wasn't felt because it was overwhelming, but because it was _undeniable_ , and ruthlessly exact.

But while it forced half of them to their knees, Makino embraced it, remaining on her feet even as the air sang with power, the wind sharpened to a dagger’s tip where it cut, sending her skirts flapping and pulling some of her hair free even as her blindfold remained. The humming sound lifted to a high, keening note as the pressure built, popping his ears and pressing around his skull, until it saw more than one startled oath spat by his crew. Even the other Kuja appeared to find it difficult withstanding it.

If she was having trouble, Makino didn't show it, and when Hancock spun around to deliver another devastating kick, she was there to meet it with her bare hands, her dagger tossed aside, but this time the power behind the attack staggered her, making her grip on Hancock's ankle slip.

She’d recovered a second later, and had shot forward between blinks, her sword swept from its sheath as she slammed the pommel into Hancock's chest, before she took an answering blow to her stomach, another to her ribs and one to her jaw in quick succession, cutting her lip and startling a pained shout from between her teeth that seized his whole body. Her sword tumbled from her fingers, but she didn't pause to lament the loss as she ducked and drove her elbow into Hancock’s sternum, and so hard it had the taller woman stumbling back a step.

She’d drawn her bow again before Hancock could regain her balance, her arrow loosened before she’d even fitted it, the resounding _twang_ striking the air like a perfect chord, but it had barely left her bow when it suddenly halted, mid-air.

Hancock gripped the shaft, her knuckles white and the arrow’s sharpened tip a hairsbreadth away from finding its mark, right between her brows.

For a tense second, neither of them moved. The crumbling crater loomed at the Pirate Empress' back, and they stood on level ground now. Having moved further back, Makino was closer to him than she'd been when they'd started, and Shanks could hear her breaths, heavy where they pulled from her chest in sharp gusts, and saw the sweat where it had soaked through her dress and the scarf at her temples, running like tears down her cheeks. She was getting tired; he felt it in her presence, although her focus remained steady, stubbornly unwavering.

Despite her more controlled composure, Hancock looked similarly affected, although far more loath to demonstrate it. Her brows clashing, she flipped the arrow between her fingers, before her arm reared back and she sent it flying, and with the same amount of force as though she’d shot it with a bow.

Makino didn’t even flinch, just tilted her head the barest of fractions as the arrow shot past, missing its mark completely. Shanks didn't move, but felt the sharp gust where it flew past his face, before vanishing out towards the sea behind him. He didn’t turn his head to look after it, his whole attention seized by Makino, standing calmly a few paces away, her back still to him. She hadn't once touched her blindfold.

“Holy fucking shit,” Yasopp breathed, which about accurately summed up what most of them were feeling. Ben had, very tellingly, nothing to say.

Hancock looked livid now, her cool composure discarded completely as she tossed her hair, and without warning, released her haki.

This time she yielded more—more than she usually would, Shanks thought, from the wild look in her eyes, and he recognised that desperation; the one that sensed a possible defeat and refused it point blank—and this time he had to brace himself for the impact.

He felt the weight of it _shoving_  his shoulders down, like invisible hands forcing him to kneel, obeisance demanded like his submission, and with the expectation that he give her both, but he remained standing, refusing it, his brow heavy where it pressed down above his eyes, narrowed as he bore the onslaught, his hair lashing about his face as the air crackled with power like it was about to break the sound barrier.

He watched as Makino staggered forward a step, as though compelled by that invisible force, the tip of her bow shoved in the earth as she fought to stay on her feet. But despite her efforts to withstand it, one of her legs folded beneath her, her knee catching her weight as she hit the ground, and his heart stopped, recognising the millisecond she let her guard slip, before Hancock was upon her, her haki extinguished within a breath and her leg raised to deliver another blow.

He’d reached for Gryphon without thinking, his hand clamped around the hilt, the attack anticipated and determined already by the time Makino realised it was coming, and he was ready and willing to intercept this time, ruthlessly uncaring of what laws he broke in doing so or if it meant certain death for him, only seeing Makino, fury and desperation surging up his chest with her name before it caught against his teeth, and he unleashed his haki. It rushed across the battleground, a different kind of control in the release than Hancock had boasted, nothing held back but all of it focused; an overwhelming, _overpowering_ force, and Gryphon ready to soar.

He’d just found her. And he wasn’t going to lose her again, not like _this_ —

He’d slid the sword an inch from its sheath when he suddenly stopped, halted along with everything else, every sound and breath and heartbeat in the circle they’d formed, and he'd reined his haki back in before his next breath. Hancock hadn't shown any reaction to it aside from a slight tightening at the corners of her eyes, locked with his now where she stood over Makino.

Nothing stirred. Even the sea seemed to hold its breath, observing the two women, Makino kneeling and Hancock standing above her, her leg raised for a killing blow that would have broken her neck and shattered her spine, but before it could, she'd stopped, the arch of her foot less than an inch from her temple.

She swept her eyes down, leaving his as they fixed on Makino's kneeling shape, and Shanks could only stare, Gryphon still partly unsheathed, but he didn't draw it. And it might have been easy to believe that Hancock had halted her attack because of him, sensing what he'd been prepared to do, only Shanks had felt her intention before he'd let his haki go.

He wasn't the reason she'd stopped.

 

—

 

Her world was dark, and her breaths like daggers, sharp and loud where they stabbed her chest, seeming to tear through her lungs as she fought to catch them, her whole body heaving from the attempt. The blindfold was a gentle weight over her eyelids, but she barely felt it, the pale sensation overpowered by so many others.

She was vividly aware of herself, and the black void around her; that quiet place within her where everything was clear, every sensation sharper and every vision brighter. She felt the water around her legs where she kneeled in it, the surface stirred with silver ripples, and the people surrounding her, their silhouettes outlined, some more clearly than others, crowding her mind and her senses as she fought to come down from the adrenaline high still coursing through her body.

In the void, she saw everything—saw Hancock, and all her emotions released of their iron shackles. She saw the other Kuja, and the Red-Hair Pirates, and the sea beyond them all. She saw Red-Hair behind her, and felt the unmistakeable intent in his presence, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword where he’d been in the process of unsheathing it, ready to intervene. Makino had seen it in her mind; had looked into the future and seen Hancock fall to his blade, but he’d stopped himself, like Hancock had stopped, although she couldn’t tell who’d prompted which response.

No one spoke, but Makino still heard them, their breaths and the loud pounding of their hearts, and the rush of their blood through their systems. She saw everything, every weakness and tell, knew who favoured their right sides and their left, knew the individual rhythms of their pulse, and the secrets their bodies kept. And she knew what it would take to disarm them all and how, her second sight so sharp it cut through the fabric of time to give her a glimpse of what awaited.

But even with her second sight, she hadn’t been strong enough to withstand the full force of Hancock's conqueror’s haki, her will enforced with the intention of making her yield, and refusing anything short of a complete surrender.

She could have killed her. She’d had the chance, the perfect shot, but Hancock hadn’t taken it, even as there’d been a split second where Makino had been sure she would—had seen that, too, but even if her observation could predict the future, she wasn’t always quick enough to respond. It had taken years to train her body into reacting within a fraction of a second, for it to respond like her haki demanded, quicker than even her mind could keep up, and she was _good_ , was one of the best on their whole island, but it hadn’t been enough.

She sensed Red-Hair keenly, the strongest presence in her mind, but didn’t know if that was his fault or hers, for not being able to withdraw her focus from him. He hadn't sheathed his sword, the sliver of exposed blade so sharp it felt like she could cut her thoughts on it, and she'd felt when he'd made to draw it, a rearing gryphon’s image flashing before her mind’s eye once, before it was gone. Makino sensed it where it had halted, uneasy in its sheath, as though he hadn’t yet dismissed the necessity of intervening, even if Hancock gave no indication that she meant to follow through.

Part of her didn’t know if she was relieved or not, uncertain if it would have been easier to bear being saved by him, than by whatever had kept Hancock from committing to the finishing blow she’d been about to deliver.

It would have killed her, if she hadn’t stopped. It would have snapped her neck and ended her life, but she was still breathing, the heel of Hancock’s foot perched by her shoulder, before she withdrew, the soft rustle of her silks scraping against her hearing, uncomfortably loud with all her senses heightened like they were.

With effort, Makino let go of a painful breath, and reached up to push her scarf out of her eyes, withdrawing from the void within her, to the world as she perceived it with her regular sight.

The sunlight burned white against her retina, blinding her, but she endured the onslaught even as her eyes watered, meeting Hancock’s gaze where she stood above her. Makino had to crane her neck to look at her.

No one spoke or moved. They barely seemed to breathe where they stood, as though rooted to the ground where they’d formed their makeshift battle ring, most back on their feet now, although some where still kneeling. And even though the real thing was vast and carved in stone, and could hold an audience five times the one observing her now, there was something suddenly crippling about feeling all their gazes on her, Hancock’s the most damning, even as Red-Hair’s was a physical touch, and Makino had to stop herself from flinching away from it.

Hancock was still looking at her, having said nothing, and Makino knew her expression had to show her lack of understanding.

Then, “The mercy that always stays your hand will stay mine now,” Hancock said. She didn’t look half as winded as Makino felt, but she was far from untouched, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wild. And Makino felt it in her presence; every damning piece of evidence her composure refused to let slip.

Hancock pressed her lips together, before she said, each word falling like a blow, “You are hereby stripped of your rank. Your duty to this tribe is done.” She paused, as though to let her catch her breath, although Makino didn’t think it was a kindness, unable to summon it, frozen in her chest with her heart as Hancock announced evenly, “You are banished, effective immediately.”

The words _struck_ , and Makino heard as the other Kuja reacted with shock. Even Red-Hair’s crew looked caught off their guard, and halfway ready to protest, but Hancock wasn’t looking at anyone else, as though none of them existed.

Her fingers shook around her bow where she gripped it for balance, and it took all the strength she possessed to push to her feet, and to keep her chin raised and her gaze on Hancock. Her whole body trembled from adrenaline and shock, and she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. Sweat poured down her temples, soaking the scarf and her hair; she felt as it gathered in her lashes and her upper lip, the humid midmorning air clinging like she’d been swathed in wet silks.

She didn’t bother tempering her expression, to hide what she was feeling, knowing there was no use, but even with her heart splitting at the seams, Makino didn’t drop her eyes from Hancock’s.

And this wasn’t mercy, even if it was an offering; the only way Hancock could let her go, by severing her ties to the Kuja completely. And it would have been easier to just kill her for her insubordination, but she hadn’t. The woman she’d been ten years ago would have, Makino knew, but it wasn’t a comfort. If anything, it felt like a deepening loss; a loyalty she’d spent ten years proving, and earning in return, and the friendship she’d nurtured with it.

She felt the tears where they gathered in her lashes, spilling over her cheeks, but didn’t bother wiping them away, or to care that they all saw—all of them, the women who’d been her family, her friends and her sisters; the warriors under her command who looked at her now like they didn’t recognise her.

Hancock was still watching her, once again with that entirely stony expression that belied the storm in her eyes. “Should you ever wish to challenge that ruling, you know the price,” she said.

To anyone else, it might have seemed a curious offering in the face of her earlier sentence, but Makino knew, like all the Kuja, what Hancock meant. That if it was an offer of anything, it wasn’t benevolence but death. Her victory had already proved that.

She didn’t hesitate. “Then I’ll see you in the battle ring,” Makino said, and heard from the hoarseness of her voice that it revealed even more than her face did, but the conviction in it didn’t waver, steady as the heart breaking in her chest. “I won’t be losing then.”

Hancock’s face remained unchanged, and her eyes lingered on her only a second longer as she said, “We shall see.”

With that, she strode past her, towards Red-Hair, her spine straight and her strides conquering the ground, and Makino could only glance after her, unable to summon her voice to call out, even as she didn’t know what she even meant to say.

She stopped right in front of him, having straightened to her full height, and he still had a few inches on her but she seemed intent to stare down her nose at him regardless. “Know this,” Hancock told him, with a calm that didn’t match her presence, but that seemed all the more terrible for it. “If you or any member of your crew touches her, I do not care that you are Emperor. You will face the wrath of my tribe, and you will know why I am feared, even on these waters.” She stepped closer, but Red-Hair didn’t back down or drop his eyes from hers as she vowed softly, “I will rip your leering eyes from your skull, and while you still breathe, I will turn your cock to stone and scatter the broken pieces along the seabed. Make no mistake, for many have suffered for that folly—I did not defeat the Gorgon; I _am_ the Gorgon.”

Then she turned on her heel, her silks flaring around her, a dark tidal wave, and didn’t look back as she swept towards the forest. Her sisters fell in behind her, lingering looks offered to Makino, their understanding even worse than the regret that accompanied it, before they turned to take their leave.

The rest of the Kuja hesitated, refusal written boldly across their expressions where they all watched her, as though awaiting orders—or an explanation.

Makino offered neither. She couldn’t explain in any way they'd understand, and she had no right to command them anymore. She only nodded, a silent suggestion for them to follow Hancock. She wouldn’t regret her choice now that she’d made it. She could only hope they'd one day find it in themselves to forgive her for making it.

She watched as they disappeared between the trees, one by one, reluctance holding several of them back, before even they withdrew. Sensing their retreat in her mind, Makino wondered if this was the last time she saw them.

A lengthy spell of complete silence remained in their wake, before a low, marvelling whistle punctured the bubble, and the tension loosened with a shivering breath of chuckles from around her, even as Makino felt none of their relief, still watching the trees where the Kuja had disappeared.

She sensed him stepping up behind her, but Red-Hair didn’t reach out to touch her as he asked her quietly, “Are you hurt?”

Makino swallowed, but didn’t look at him. In that moment, she couldn’t make herself do it. Her ribs were bruised and aching, suggesting a possible sprain, and her shoulder throbbed like her arm was about to fall off, as it always did when she exerted herself too much without warming up first, the old wound long healed but not forgotten. She felt every arrow she’d drawn, the painfully taut muscles in her shoulder burning under her skin like they were on fire.

“I’m fine,” she said, and heard from the strain in her voice that she wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all him.

But Red-Hair didn’t push, even as he didn’t leave her, remaining where he stood at her back. He’d sheathed his sword, even as Makino still felt the imprint of the blade within her, like the lingering impression of his conqueror's haki, seeming to cling to her skin like the heat.

She'd never felt anything like it. And it hadn't even been a full second, but she couldn't forget it. Where Hancock's had sought to forcibly subdue her, his had bypassed her completely; had enveloped her whole, but somehow without touching her, a protective shield rather than a barrage. She hadn't even known that kind of precision was possible.

She felt the goosebumps pebbling her skin at the memory, and ignored it, fingers curled towards her palms to keep them from shaking.

Red-Hair's crew hadn't moved to ready the ship, as though awaiting orders, but their captain didn’t issue any. Makino felt his eyes on her back, the weight of his gaze heavy and considering, and her shoulders clenched under that almost physical touch. His presence wasn’t as open to her as it had been, as though he was guarding himself now from letting slip too much, even as she still found the things he wished to keep; those barely-contained feelings, and the part of him that seemed to always be reaching for her, seemingly without meaning to.

She allowed herself five heartbeats, before drawing a deep breath, and when she let it go she allowed it to take her regrets with it, as she turned her focus from what she'd done to what she needed to. She wasn’t going to waste time wallowing about her choices, and banished or not, she was still Kuja; was still _herself_ , even if she hadn’t felt less certain about who that was in ten years.

But even uncertain, some things had never failed her. She was too practical for self-defeat, and hadn't gotten to where she was by giving up when things took an unexpected turn. Her life as she knew it had begun in the womb of a slave ship, and every decision she'd made since, she'd made without looking back. This was no different, and the only thing left to do now was to move forward.

She did a quick survey of herself. She had nothing but the clothes on her back and her weapons, but it would have to do. They’d been short on supplies coming ashore, and Hancock had refused Red-Hair’s offer of sharing some of theirs, but with one less mouth to feed, they could divide what they had better between them. And they could hunt and forage while they repaired the ship. If there was one thing she was leaving with, it was the certainty that they’d make it. She wasn’t abandoning them to their deaths.

Turning to face Red-Hair, Makino steeled her spine as she lifted her head to meet his eyes. There was a little more than an arm's length between them, as though he was mindful not to come too close, although it didn't make much of a difference, his large frame dwarfing hers, but she ignored the implications, and bore the weight of his eyes as she asked, “Are we all set to leave?”

The look in his eyes told her he wanted to say something, his gaze fleeting to the cut in her lip, but he only inclined his head in a show of affirmation. “Whenever you’re ready.”

 _Never_ , she thought, but kept her chin raised as she watched him turn towards his ship where it sat anchored by the shore, his voice rising with an order to ready it for departure as he made for it with long, powerful strides, his cloak billowing and his men falling in behind him, some of them stealing glances at her over their shoulders.

Broken heart fortified with steel, Makino lingered only a single beat before following.

She had faced worse enemies than fear; had stared down the worst evils humanity could conceive, had been lost and scared and out of her depth, and had vowed never to be put in the same position again, but that vow had been for herself.

For her daughter, she would face it all again, and ten times over.

 

—

 

It didn’t take them long to ready the ship. Red-Hair had an effective crew, as she bore witness, observing them where they raised the anchor and unfurled the sails, rough, salt-chafed hands hauling ropes as heavy-booted feet marched across a newly scrubbed deck, the planks gleaming, glossy and pristine and the colour of dark liquor. It was a full-rigged ship, and the canvas cracked taut and loud like a heartbeat as the unfurled sails gobbled up the wind, the ropes pulled tight as though in a morning stretch.

No one was superfluous, each man to his post and certain in his task; all of them loud, both in voice and movement, but none of them loitering. Red-Hair’s voice rose above the din with calm command, carrying orders of how much of the sails to unfurl and directions for the navigator at the helm as he walked between them across the main deck, with the ease of a captain who knew the wind and the waves, and the authority that compelled both to answer, his orders given with the unquestionable surety they’d be followed, and without hesitation.

Observing him—while making a rather unconvincing show of pretending that she wasn’t—Makino lingered by the bow, reluctant to disrupt their routine, and unsure of where else to go, on a ship she’d only stepped aboard once before, and then only on deck. She had no quarters to which to retreat, and no tasks to keep her hands from idling, leaving her feeling restless and out of place, and in more ways than just standing on deck amidst a crew she didn’t know; one of the world's strongest and most feared.

It was dawning on her now; the magnitude of what she had done. But even watching the island as they began to draw away, knowing the others were there and what her choice had cost her, all that she’d fought and worked for, Makino still couldn’t find it in herself to feel the regret she probably should.

A silken scarf of a breeze caressed her cheek before a rogue squall caught it with greedy fingers, tossing it away as a firmer touch sought to tease loose her hair from the thick coil of her braid where she’d wrapped it. Her hidden dagger was gone, lost in her fight with Hancock, but the weight of her bow was a small comfort, and she knew how long it would take her to draw it, and how many arrows she could give before she fell. She’d let the sea take her before she let any of them have the chance to try.

Her shoulders were tensed with anticipation, wondering if at any moment, they’d reveal their true colours. She felt her muscles clenching whenever someone passed behind her, and her hands twitched every time she felt someone's attention brush up against her, thinking that _now_ —now they’d do it, with nowhere for her to run.

But they didn’t touch her, just went about their business loudly and cheerfully, and breath by breath her tension loosened from high alert to a familiar wariness, even as she remained where she stood by the bow, allowing them to do their work unhindered.

Red-Hair’s voice lifted again, the note of command in it sending a shiver down her back, and she heard how they answered, with a cheer she couldn’t make herself feel, even if the setting was familiar. But this wasn’t her crew, and it wasn’t her ship; wasn’t the sea or even the world she knew as hers. She hadn’t felt so small and vulnerable since her first crossing from Sabaody to Amazon Lily, back when her daughter had still been kicking in her belly.

Someone started humming a song—a shanty she recognised.  _Moored to Her Port_ , it was Kikyo's favourite, and Makino knew all the verses, had learned them working in Aster’s tavern, had sung them during closing shifts, during fights and hunts and rocking her baby daughter to sleep, and for a brief spell, the small familiarity offered comfort, allowing her to breathe a little easier, until abruptly, the rising note was cut off, as though someone had silenced it.

The sudden vacuum left her hands trembling, and she turned her focus to the sea, and the water where it filled the growing gap between the ship and the island they’d left, becoming smaller and smaller as they drew away, the sea parting willingly, dark as wine, and the gently cresting waves trimmed with delicate white lace. There was nothing left of the storm that had brought them together. Instead, rough brushstrokes of cotton-white clouds softened the intense blue of the sky, and a strong wind bellied out the sails to bursting, to the delight of a crew used to worse conditions and who knew to celebrate a sailor’s good fortune; the fair winds and obliging waters that could just as easily turn foul, and wilful. The sea practically invited sailing now, tugging eagerly at the ship, at the sails, as though asking for a dance; a courtship of soft touches and deceitful smiles that made it all too easy to forget that it was the same sea that had nearly dragged them all under and left them shattered on the shore.

The warm spray felt good against her cheeks, the sea’s kisses wet and adoring, seeking to win her over as surely as the ship and her crew. And it was tempting to let herself, tired from doubting and from holding on to her suspicions, when neither had ever felt at home in her heart.

Gaze fixed on the figurehead, Makino imagined clinging to a soaring dragon’s neck, not a sea beneath but a wide-open sky, a brief moment of liberation from her own doubts as she closed her eyes and filled her lungs with fresh air and salt, until she couldn’t take any more.

She sensed Red-Hair behind her, but didn’t open her eyes or turn around to look at him, waiting instead for him to speak, and heard his voice, the warm timbre reaching towards her where she stood. “I’ve set our course for Paradise. I know someone on that side who might be of help.” He paused, before he added, “A mutual acquaintance. At least I’ve been told you’ve met her. She owns a bar there with her husband.”

Her head whipped around, her eyes finding his where they observed her, calmly but for the numberless things in them. “Shakky-san?” Makino asked, surprised.

Red-Hair nodded. His expression revealed nothing of what he thought. “I figured she’d be a good place to start.”

Makino just looked at him, thrown off balance by the sudden reminder of the woman who’d helped her; who she’d left without even saying goodbye, but whose kindness she’d never forgotten.

She wondered if Red-Hair had known Shakky from before, or if they’d met while he’d been looking for her. Part of her wanted suddenly to ask, to pry more information from him, of who she’d been before she’d been taken, but Makino held her tongue, unsure if she even wanted to know. She didn’t know what she'd do with the answer if it turned out to be what she feared whenever she looked in his eyes, and thought about the person she'd forgotten, and who she'd been to him.

 _Everything_ , he'd said, with that terrible, effortless conviction, and she feared what it meant; feared what he might expect from her now that she'd agreed to come with him.

She tried to will her thoughts back, to Shakky, and Rayleigh, and she hadn't even considered the fact that seeing them meant she would have to set foot on Sabaody again, but before the realisation could seize her fully, along with that old, crippling fear, Red-Hair gave a nod towards the hold.

“Come on,” he told her, and before she could ask, or refuse whatever he was about to suggest, he’d turned to leave. “I’ll show you where you’ll be sleeping.”

He didn’t wait for her to follow, and hesitation held her back a beat before Makino forced herself to do it, gaze locked on his back as she walked after him across the deck, at a careful distance.

His crew hadn’t paused their various occupations, and parted smoothly to let them pass, not so much as a hitch in their movements, although Makino felt their attentions where they tracked her passage across the deck after their captain, and their poorly concealed curiosity, tumbling over numerous other feelings she didn’t have the strength to even attempt sifting through. If they were attempting subtlety, they were failing rather spectacularly, and she tried her best to shrug off their gazes and their questioning presences, her focus centred on Red-Hair where he walked ahead of her, her eyes fixed on the folds of his cloak where they shifted with his long strides.

He opened the door for her, but Makino stopped, and didn’t budge, just watched him until he gave up and walked through, leaving her to follow, her wariness growing as the door swung shut behind them, cutting them off from the busy deck and the rest of his crew, but Red-Hair didn’t linger as he led her through a large, open galley filled with sunlight, pooling hot and gold like melted butter on the planks. The savoury smell of someone’s cooking filled her nose, beckoning her missing appetite from where it had been hiding.

A pirate stood by the stove as they entered, a hulking beast of a man in a clean white apron, his chestnut brown hair pulled back in a braid almost as long as hers. Makino glanced his way once, but was quick to look away, even as she felt how his gaze followed her, something like sadness in his presence. Red-Hair gave him a nod as they passed, but said nothing.

There were several long tables and benches spanning the length of the galley, enough to seat his whole crew, all of them empty now even as it seemed to hoard the echo of a hundred loud, laughing voices, and the impression stole her focus away from Red-Hair long enough to distract her from paying attention to where they were going, even as she knew she should; that she should know the vessel inside-out, every creaking plank and hatch and how many steps it took to cross it stern to bow, in case she ever had to fight her way out. But she was too tired—felt exhausted now that it was finally sinking in, that she’d left, and that she’d been banished for her decision—and all she could do was trail after Red-Hair, out the galley and along a narrow passageway, his broad back ahead of her, and his face obscured by the high collar of his cloak.

He finally came to a stop before a door, and Makino paused, thinking he meant to hold it open for her again, but this time he only let himself inside, and she’d caught it before it could swing shut behind him.

She hesitated, aware that they were well and truly alone now, but she shoved down her trepidation before it could make her cower, gripping her courage like she would have gripped her bow as she pushed through the door to follow Red-Hair.

It opened up into a large cabin—too large, she thought at first, to be for a single occupant, unless he somehow meant for her to bunk with the others, although even as she thought it, she knew it wasn’t the case, and that he wouldn’t demand that, knowing how wary she was about being aboard his ship. And stepping inside, Makino saw that it only had one bunk—spacious for one person, which suggested whoever resided here held a high rank, and the answer presented itself a second later, taking in the vast bank of windows wrapping around the whole quarters, which told her exactly where on the ship they were.

Makino spun towards him where he stood just beyond the doorway, observing her. “This is the captain’s quarters." Then, her eyes widening as a thought presented itself, along with a surge of disbelief—and breathless outrage, “I hope you don’t think—”

“I’ll be bunking with the guys,” Red-Hair said, cutting her accusation in half before she could level her charge against him. “This will give you some privacy.”

Makino stared at him, mouth agape, but for a different reason now. “I can’t take your cabin,” she blurted.

“Oh so _you_ want to bunk with the guys, then?”

She glared, but Red-Hair only arched a brow. It tugged at the scars over his eye, and Makino tried not to notice the flash of a challenge proffered with the grey steel in them, although it was noticeably dulled, from what she knew it could be. But then she wasn’t Hancock; didn’t stand as tall, or as fierce, and maybe he didn’t think her dangerous enough to warrant the same effort.

“The hammocks _are_ surprisingly comfortable,” Red-Hair said then. “Fair warning, though: Yasopp snores like he's dying from it. And Lucky eats in his sleep. It’s loud, and to be honest, kinda terrifying when you’re woken in the middle of the night by what sounds like something sucking the meat off the bones of a carcass.” At her wide-eyed look, he shrugged. “I’m just saying. It takes some time getting used to. But if that’s what you want…”

She folded her lips tightly. “Fine,” she said, the word bit in half. She glanced at the bunk, and the rumpled bedding, before adding, a tad mutinously, “I’ll need new sheets.”

Red-Hair only nodded, which made her blink. For some reason, she’d expected him to counter with another glib remark, or feigned offence; something about his own personal hygiene not warranting that kind of outright contempt, but he said nothing.

Makino didn’t know why she’d expected anything else, and tried to shake off the eerie sensation.

He nodded to one of the chests then, stacked against the bulkhead. “Feel free to help yourself if you need a change of clothes. I have like fifty of these,” he said, indicating the shirt he was wearing. “Some of them are missing a sleeve, though. But contrary to popular belief, they do button all the way up.”

Makino very pointedly avoided looking at him, and the hard panes of his chest where his shirt draped over it, the front mostly unbuttoned, an almost wilful carelessness to the casual indecency that seemed to invite involuntary eyeballing. “I’ll pass," she said primly.

He had no counter to that, and her hands clenched, startled, as though she’d been expecting one again—as though she’d braced herself for it, ready with a rebuttal, only to find it wasn’t necessary. It was like trying to anticipate the tides of a fight, only to find her opponent directly defying her predictions. It made her feel like screaming, if only to catch him off guard.

Makino bit back a comment before she could blurt something. Why was she trying to goad him?

For a long moment, Red-Hair said nothing, only watched her where she stood, taking her in, and once again, Makino became hyper-aware that they were alone in his quarters; that the door was closed, and that even if she made a run for it, he’d likely catch her before she reached it, and that even if she could somehow get out, they were out at sea now. And his crew was out on deck; men who were loyal to him, and who owed her nothing. She wouldn’t be able to stop him, if he decided to just drop the pretence of courtesy and take her against her will.

And even if he had given her his cabin, she felt the significance of the gesture; the ever-looming fact that she was at his mercy, in this as in everything. That he could have decided her sleeping quarters without consulting her, if he'd wished—that he still could, if she forgot to hold her tongue and kept challenging his patience. A captain’s prerogative, an Emperor’s even more so, and she was little more than a stowaway on his ship, her passage bartered with nothing but her acceptance of his offer.

Makino hoped he wouldn’t be expecting a different kind of payment, and didn’t want to grow too comfortable with his generosity, in case he meant to claim what he was owed later; to exact a price she didn’t know if she could make herself pay, even for her daughter's sake.

But even as she searched his presence for what she was so desperate to find now, just the barest hint that would prove her suspicions about him correct, that would confirm the necessity of keeping them, all she found when she reached for him were the same feelings he’d revealed before. Determination, and that fierce, awful _hope_ she couldn’t bear to touch.

She heard his voice then, reaching through her thoughts, “Is she—”

He stopped, as though he’d decided against asking at the very last second, and Makino watched him warily. He hadn’t taken a step towards her, allowing her to keep her distance, but the look on his face was imploring, and seemingly despite himself.

And she knew what he was asking about, but hesitated a moment, before she murmured, “What?”

Indecision held his tongue, showing on his face, before he yielded, and, “What is she like?” Red-Hair asked. His voice had that roughness to it; that undercurrent of _feeling_ she didn’t know what to do with. “Our—”

He cut himself off, and Makino thought he might rephrase it, but he said nothing, just let the word hang in the air between them, as though he didn’t know whether to discard it or claim it in full.

She shoved down the uncharacteristic possessiveness that rose up within her at the casual suggestion that there was an _our_ , when her daughter had for so long only been hers. And she was still struggling coming to terms with everything that had happened. Knowing that her daughter had a father somewhere was one thing; meeting him, and accepting him for what he was, was something else entirely.

But the desperation on his face hurt to look at, and she felt the echo of it within herself now, wondering where her daughter was, and if she was safe and unharmed. It was the part of her that would have given everything to know, and that could barely live without knowing. She couldn’t imagine enduring that for ten years; felt short of breath just thinking about it.

“She’s strong, and healthy,” Makino said at length, choosing her words carefully, even as it was a feat just shaping them to speak, when every fibre of her being rebelled against it. But that was what she would have wanted to know, had their roles been reversed, even as there were so many things she could have said, and that she might have said, if she could have swallowed her fear of what it meant for him to know.  _She eats for four with ease, and climbs trees like a monkey. She loves ships, and sailing, and the sea._ _She talks to animals, and the sea kings at the bottom of the ocean. She has a hundred freckles and a gap between her teeth, and the loudest laugh I know._

She didn’t want to give him any more pieces of Rowan than she already had, but before she could stop herself, heard herself saying, “And she’s stubborn. She can take care of herself.”

It sounded strangely defiant, and Makino didn’t know if the words were meant as a comfort to herself, or a warning to him.

Whichever he took it as, Red-Hair seemed relieved, although not surprised. The soft chuckle that left him seized her heart, despite her efforts at guarding it. “Yeah?”

She felt suddenly exposed again, like she’d once again revealed too much, and it was difficult enduring the closed space of his quarters, generous as they were and with the sea on all sides. But they were still his private quarters, and his presence claimed room for itself seemingly without trying. And he towered above her, his large frame blocking most of the door, and the distance between them felt suddenly too short, there was too _much_ of him, too close, and in that moment she craved the privacy he’d offered her, and so desperately Makino feared she wasn’t beyond begging him for it.

Red-Hair looked like he wanted to ask something else, and Makino felt relieved when he didn't.

“Let me know if you want a bath,” he told her instead. Then he amended, a twinge wryly, “That wasn’t an invitation to join me, by the way. Just to clarify this time.”

Her cheeks flared, wholly despite herself, and she turned her face away before he could see. And it had almost managed to sound teasing, although it didn’t quite succeed, with that still-present ache in his voice. Like the heat in her cheeks, Makino tried to ignore it, and the look on his face, marring his features, achingly handsome in a way that was hard to look at. Her daughter’s features, which had been made with smiling in mind, deepened now with that unreadable look, and darkened with more than just the shadows of his beard.

He made to leave, and without knowing why, a surge of guilt welled up within her, filling her chest like saltwater, dragging her voice to the surface, and her heart where it bobbed near the roof of her throat. Guilt, for treating him with so much suspicion when he’d done nothing to deserve her hostility, and when all he’d done was offer to help her. And something else, something almost desperate, and that pushed the words off her tongue before she even knew what she meant to say.

“Red-Hair,” Makino said, stopping him before he could reach the door, and she watched as he inclined his head towards her. Her eyes traced the sharp bridge of his nose and his profile, and the calm press of his mouth, unsmiling, her stomach knotting strangely, not exactly painfully but almost, and she had no name for that feeling, or for the look on his face where he watched her.

“Shanks,” he said then, and Makino started, heart skipping at the sound of his voice, and so distracted by it she didn’t realise what he’d even said.

“What?”

An almost-smile passed over his mouth, but it was gone before she could try and catch it. “Shanks,” he repeated, the firm enunciation prompting an involuntary shiver to dance up her spine, the sharp syllable like a blade unsheathed, the natural warmth of his voice making it both soft and hard at the same time, and undeniably, frustratingly pleasant. “That’s my name. Usually, only those who consider me an enemy call me ‘Red-Hair’.” He looked at her, that muted gleam in his eyes from before, and she thought he _wanted_ it to sound teasing now, but he only succeeded in making it sound painfully sincere, as he murmured, “I had hoped I’d moved up from that. At least a notch.”

Makino just stared at him, saying nothing, and tried not to name the look in his eyes now, which revealed everything his expression didn’t.

But when she tried to shape his name on her tongue, that same syllable rolled from the tip to the very back, brushing the roof of her mouth, the backs of her teeth like a kiss, tasting the softness and the firm edges, she couldn’t manage it. It seemed too close, too _intimate_ , and too much like what they might have been once, even as she still didn’t know the whole story, and her own part in it. But she didn’t know what else to call him if not Red-Hair.

The answer came to her a moment later, and perched on her tongue only a second before she spoke it, no hindrance behind the voicing this time as the sounds flowed from her tongue, as natural as the alternative had seemed when she’d thought of it.

“Captain,” Makino said gently, not a question but a simple fact.

She saw how he  _reacted_ to that, the muted gleam in his eyes extinguished as his careful mask slipped right off his face, and so fast she knew she’d caught him by surprise, although she had no idea how, or why.

He’d schooled his expression within a breath, so fast she thought she’d only imagined his reaction, but she found her answer in his eyes, which didn’t succeed in concealing his surprise, or his inexplicable _hurt_ , and Makino watched as they averted from hers, as though to hide what he knew was in them—like he was the one exposed now, but where it should have given her an ounce of satisfaction, feeling a bit more in power than she was, so wholly at his mercy, all it made her feel was confused, and like she'd done something wrong.

Scrambling for control, “Thank you for your hospitality,” Makino blurted. Her voice came out hoarse, and she tried not to wince at the sound of it. So much for effortless professionalism.

She caught his smile this time, achingly genuine if a little awkward where it flitted across his mouth, like he couldn’t help it, but also like he was trying and failing at keeping the mood light. “So formal,” he chuckled. His voice sounded as rough as hers, and he still wasn’t looking at her, like he couldn’t bring himself to do it now, but Makino still didn’t know what she’d done.

He turned back to the door, and she saw that his knuckles were white where he gripped the handle. “I’ll let you know when it’s time for supper,” he said, the words perfunctory, as though responding in turn to her offered formality, stiff as it was; spoken as nothing more than the captain on whose ship she’d booked passage. “I meant what I said: my ship is yours, so roam about as you please. There are other places you can find privacy if my cabin doesn’t cut it. I’ll keep you updated on our course.” A pause, before he added, “And I’ll get you those clean sheets.”

He didn’t wait for a response, and didn’t look back as he opened the door and walked out, closing it behind him, and leaving Makino standing in his empty quarters.

For a whole beat, she just stared at the closed door, uncertain if she expected him to change his mind and walk back through it, and if she was surprised when he didn't. She felt him lingering, before he abruptly strode away, back down the passage they'd come, his presence receding in her mind, even as it remained in her periphery, but the growing distance helped drag her attention away from it, and back to herself.

When he was gone, Makino held on for three whole seconds before letting her breath shudder out, and when it threatened to take her knees with it, let it.

She sank down right where she stood, as though every ounce of strength was leaving her body at once, and every drop of tension she’d been bottling since setting foot aboard, poured out now into the planks as she sat down on her knees. Her eyes were dry, but her chest hurt from trying to breathe, her gasps struggling, her whole composure shucked like she’d stripped off all her armour, but she didn’t care, left alone to _feel_ , finally, every single thing that had happened since her world had been turned on its head, and so violently her body was just now catching up.

It took her a few moments to collect herself, sitting there on her knees in the middle of his quarters, feeling how the ship swayed, the purring creaks of the timbers beneath her, and listening to the sounds of the crew on deck, and in the hold below; the sounds Red-Hair would know, muffled where they reached into the captain’s seat, the subtle songs of the ship as familiar as the individual voices of his crew.

She looked out across the cabin, taking it in properly now that she was alone. The portholes were unshuttered, welcoming the sunlight in unhindered. Makino saw the water beyond the glass, the pale collar of the horizon stripped bare of clouds now, and seeming without end. It was a breathtaking view; a vast world, as terrible as it was beautiful. And she might have felt vulnerable under that steady gaze, and sought to close the shutters, but even with the whole cabin bared, there was still a curious privacy to it, with only the sea looking in.

His quarters were simply furnished. Not uncluttered, although not exactly tidy, either. The floorboards had been scrubbed clean recently, a single lamp dangling above her head, unlit and unnecessary with every corner filled with light. There was a wide desk to her left with a thick pile of maps and various navigator’s tools spread across the top, a brass sextant and compass and several log poses weighing down the corners where they curled up delicately. Close to the desk squatted a large, comfortable armchair, upholstered in soft blue velvet, a little worn from wear. The bunk was similarly simple in design, a carved wooden frame beneath the mattress, looking like it had been hollowed out of the timbers.

There were several chests stacked against the bulkheads, and logbooks and ledgers heaped in the shelves, the haphazard organisation making her fingers itch, and she curbed the impulse before it had seized her. He’d been courteous enough to give her his cabin; Makino doubted Red-Hair would thank her for reorganising his whole system. If there even was one.

There were few other adornments but a captain’s necessities, no carpets or curtains or ostentatious decorations hoarding space, just a discarded cloak slung over the armchair, and an assortment of personal items: an empty bottle of what looked to have been whiskey and two crystal tumblers, and a smaller shot-glass that seemed both cheerfully out of place, and like it had been put on display, like a memento. But nothing looked out of place, or unnecessary, and there was a muted warmth about it, effortlessly welcoming. And it was unmistakably the _captain’s_ quarters, although for an Emperor, it seemed strikingly humble.

She let her breath go, this time with more ease, and felt how her shoulders sank a bit further. It was difficult holding on to her suspicions when Red-Hair seemed determined to prove them wrong at every turn, and she was tired from being so tense, and worried for Rowan.

Thinking of her daughter had her throat closing up, and she was glad of the privacy now that she was allowed to let it show just how shaken she was.

 _My fool girl_ , she thought, fiercely, watching the sea beyond the glass, even as she knew it wouldn’t give her any answers. _Anchor of my heart, where have you gone?_

Her hands shook where she’d fisted them in her skirts, but when repeated attempts at mustering the strength to stand up failed, Makino forfeited the venture altogether. At least here, she didn’t have to keep up appearances.

It struck her suddenly just how much she'd come to depend on the things she knew. It didn't matter to these people who she was; the ones who only knew her as she had been. She had nothing to fall back on here, no rank or authority, or friends who had her back. She was effectively _alone_.

She had no idea what she was doing, or if she’d made the right choice. This wasn’t like her, this impulsivity that didn’t even slow down enough to allow her to catch her breath, even as the decision to renounce everything without a shred of hesitation _did_ feel like her, inexplicably. Making this gamble, accepting what he’d offered her without looking back, felt at once like the easiest and the hardest choice she’d ever made.

She felt out the ship, and the hundred presences on it, Red-Hair’s still the strongest, and so easy to single out she recoiled from it, and threw her guard back up before he realised what she was doing.

She had to be more careful around him. She couldn’t unravel completely every time he looked at her. And she had to keep some pieces of herself; she couldn’t keep giving them to him, not when she’d spent so long finding them, and who she was. She didn’t know how long she’d last on his ship if she did.

She could only hope they’d find Rowan quickly, and that she wouldn’t have to stay with him longer than absolutely necessary. Although what she’d do when they did, and how this would change their lives, her daughter’s and her own…

Makino didn’t know if she even wanted the answer.

 

—

 

The door to his cabin closed behind him, a single second claimed to wrest back his control before it slipped through his fingers, along with enough strength to shove himself forward and down the passage, and he managed to round the corner before he crumbled.

Shanks supported his weight on the bulkhead, a rasping breath ripped with an oath from his chest as he bent forward, like his whole body meant to follow suit, but he managed to keep on his feet, even as his knees threatened to give out beneath him.

He’d almost said it— _I’ll have you calling me Shanks before the week is up_ —but he’d curbed his tongue before the remark could leave it, the familiar, flirty rebuttal stamped down like the memory where it had seized him, and without mercy, the setting wrong, like the mood, like them, everything was _wrong_ , from her open distrust to the once-familiar repartee that couldn’t quite get comfortable between them.

He bit off a shout with his teeth. His chest hurt so much he briefly considered the possibility that he might be having a heart attack, and he had to brace his shoulder against the bulkhead as he gripped his chest, forcing his breaths into his lungs, but even that hurt, and so much it felt like his ribcage was about to cave in from the pressure.

It hurt. God, it _hurt_ like hell having her there, so close he could touch her but knowing that he couldn’t; that she didn’t want him to, and that she didn’t remember ever having wanted him to. It was _torture_ , just standing in his cabin with her, feeling like he would have given everything he possessed just to hold her, if only for a moment; to remember how she fit against him, and to convince himself that she really was _real._ That he had found her.

But a moment wouldn’t have been enough, even had she allowed it. And she wouldn’t have, he knew, haunted by the way she’d looked at him, like she was searching for reasons not to trust him, as though she was any second expecting him to prove why she shouldn’t.

And yet despite that fear, she’d still come with him. For their daughter. And _there_ was one thing that wasn’t wrong, but that was _her_ —the heart that never put itself first, but he didn’t know if it was a relief to find it unchanged, or an unspeakable grief, knowing there was no room for him in it now.

She’d thought he’d raped her. For ten years, she’d lived with that thought, and Shanks could barely recall it without wanting to be violently sick, let alone the expression on her face when she’d revealed it; the reason she’d reacted to him the way she had.

He needed a drink. He needed to _drown_ , needed oblivion, but just thinking about forgetting, even for just a moment, made him remember that she had forgotten. Him, and them, and everything they'd had together, the year she'd been his; all the little things that had been theirs, every moment and intimacy and inside joke, everything they'd said and done and _been_.

 _Captain_ , she’d said, with that terrible familiarity, the sound of it no different than it had been, down to the gentle inflection, even as there’d been no recognition in her eyes, none of that demure teasing and undeniable affection that had made it hers, and unique among everyone who called him that, and it had taken everything he’d had not to break down right in front of her.

Her presence was still at his fingertips, so close he was always reaching for it without thinking, and guarded with that same wariness she’d shown in his cabin, watching his every move, as though ready to fight him if he should try anything. And this wasn’t the easily flustered barmaid who’d shied away from his touches, but who’d grown comfortable with them and bold in her own; who’d been _shy_ , but who’d never thought he’d touch her without her consent.

His sob caught on a humourless laugh, rough and guttural, and drawing a shuddering breath, he pressed his thumb and forefinger to his eyes to stifle the tears, but didn’t succeed. Shanks felt as they leaked out, gathering in his beard, no will or strength left to stop them, and so he didn’t bother, just allowed them to run.

It took him a while just to gather the will to move—to feel that he had the strength to do it, and that his feet would carry him if he tried. He felt hollowed-out; drained, like he’d had all his strength leached from him, but there was nowhere for him to escape, his cabin occupied, his bunk claimed, and just thinking about _that_ prompted a helpless laugh that had never sounded anything less like his.

He'd spent ten years on the brink, toeing the line of what a single human being could endure in a lifetime, barely living, _existing_ with a single purpose, but now that he'd found what he'd been searching for, the thing he would have given his own life to find, he didn't know how to keep _living_. How the hell was he supposed to survive this?

Clenching his eyes shut, he dragged his hand over his face, and willed himself to focus on what he could do; his course now that he’d set it, now that he knew what it was, for the first time in ten years. Before anything else, before his own grief and hurt and the pain that felt like it was drowning him from within, there was the girl they were both looking for; the daughter he’d barely dared believe existed, but who did, and who was alive somewhere, and lost.

This time, he wouldn’t fail her.

 

—

 

“Brothers?”

Ace grinned, considering the freckled cheeks, and the word, muffled around a generous mouthful of food where she’d stuffed her face. Her second helping of dessert, after several main dishes and appetizers, half a platter of which he’d caught her sneaking into her pockets when she’d thought he wasn’t looking. She’d been hungrier than he’d thought.

“There’s three of us,” he told her. “There’s me, and Luffy. He’s three years younger than I am.” He paused, before he added, even as he couldn’t manage the words without the accompanying stab of longing that ten years hadn’t been able to soften, “And there’s Sabo. We’re the same age.” Or they would have been, anyway.

Rowan took in everything he was saying, seeming to hold on to every single syllable. If she’d noticed his slight pause, she didn’t let on, but then Ace thought she looked far too enraptured by what he was saying to have picked up on the unspoken things, her eyes endearingly wide as she devoured every word, ravenous for the world he was slowly revealing with them.

He considered her where she sat across the table from him, on the second floor of the restaurant he’d chosen, fancy for no other reason than their excessively lavish tableware; a pirate’s trove of expensive crystal glasses with gold rim, and the silver cutlery guarding the priceless porcelain plates, four different spoons, and more forks than anyone had use for outside of a back-alley brawl (Ace had already pocketed three, just in case). But the wide bank of widows overlooking the harbour revealed a view that seemed to warrant the outrages prices on their menu, although Ace had barely glanced at them. He wouldn’t be paying, either way.

He looked at Rowan instead, picking at her food now that she’d swallowed her mouthful. She seemed deep in thought, but then Ace didn’t blame her.

He’d told her about Dawn Island—about Fuschia, and Party’s, and her mother as he’d known her. But she hadn’t recognised any of it, none of the names or the places, or the things he’d told her, as though he’d been talking about a different woman than the one who’d raised her, even as Ace knew they had to be the same person. She was the right age, had the same name and the same dark, sea-glass hair and brown eyes, and her daughter was Red-Hair’s spitting image. He couldn’t be _wrong_.

“Your mom really didn’t tell you anything?” he asked. It wasn’t an accusation, although he couldn’t keep his voice from revealing how strange he found it.

Still staring into her plate, Rowan shook her head. She poked at a honeyed peach with her spoon, pushing it around, before she lifted her eyes to his, and he fought not let his expression show just how disconcerting the sight of them were, so like her mother’s. “Why do you think she didn’t?” she asked, quietly.

Ace didn’t answer right away, observing her over his own plate. He tried to picture Makino as she’d been when he’d last seen her, but found the image elusive, the memory worn thin by ten years, and the child’s remembrance that had tried and failed to keep it untouched. All he remembered with clarity was that effortless kindness, and her soft, gentle hands. He couldn't remember her voice, only that she'd used to hum old sea songs whenever she measured them for new clothes, and that she'd laugh when Luffy failed to sit still. And he remembered the flowers in her windows, and the smile that had always been a little sad; the one that hadn’t suited her face, even as he couldn’t remember what it had looked like, aside from her eyes, staring back at him now from across the table.

“Maybe she wanted to start over,” Ace said, even as he felt how wrong it sounded. It didn’t sound like her, leaving everything she knew without a word. Her mother’s bar, and Fuschia, with all the people in it. Dadan and Garp. Red-Hair.

Rowan nodded absently, even as she didn’t look convinced. She’d hoarded everything he’d told her, but it wasn't with excitement that she pondered the information now, all of it news to her. She hadn’t even suspected that her mother might have come from somewhere other than the island where she’d been raised.

Ace hadn’t told her about the pirate raid, or the slavers. He’d surmised fairly quickly that she didn't know about that, either, and that Makino must have wanted it that way. She would have told her, otherwise; Ace was sure about that. And _that_ made sense, even as nothing else did. There were certain things a ten-year-old didn’t need to know, but it didn’t make sense that Makino had never told her about Garp, or Dadan. Rowan hadn’t even known about her grandmother, or Suze-baba, which Ace almost couldn’t believe.

And she didn’t know about Red-Hair, which was the most surprising fact of all. When he’d asked about her father, she’d told him she didn’t have one, but she’d had a shifty look on her face that told Ace she knew more than she was letting on, although if her mother had told her it was Red-Hair, he doubted she would have been so secretive about it. And if Makino had never mentioned Red-Hair, there had to be a reason, even if he couldn’t think of one that seemed even the least bit plausible, remembering her as she’d been, and that open longing in her eyes that had never pretended to be anything else. She’d loved him, he’d never doubted that. She’d even given their daughter her anchor, which Ace knew Red-Hair had given her.

It didn't make _sense_.

He looked at Rowan again, taking in the bright red hair and the brown eyes, and the little snake wrapped around her neck with her mother’s anchor. The Kuja Tribe, she’d said, when she’d told him where she’d come from. And Ace knew about the Pirate Empress, and the legendary Isle of Women. He’d heard his crew eagerly speculating the validity of the rumours, and the possibility of such a place existing somewhere on the sea, but he’d never offered it much thought, before now.

But it explained it. A society apart from the rest of the world, on a hidden island that most dismissed as nothing more than myth. Somewhere she would have been safe, but isolated; cut off from the world, and everything she knew. And maybe she’d been unable to contact anyone, and that was why no one had found her. Or maybe she really had wanted to start over; to cultivate a new life, on an island worlds away from the one she’d left.

Whatever her reasons, Ace wasn’t about to judge them. He knew what it meant to run from one’s past, and wasn’t going to dole out judgement for someone who wanted to escape theirs, for whatever reason. All he could do was keep her daughter safe, and try to get her back home. Once he did, he’d get the full story from Makino herself.

The only problem was that he had no idea where the Isle of Women was located, and Rowan was being cheerfully tight-lipped about it. She’d loudly steered the conversation in a different direction both times he’d tried to fish it out of her.

She was polishing off her third helping of dessert, seeming momentarily distracted from the things he’d told her by the sweet cream and the peaches heaped on her plate. They were a few thousand berri in debt already, although it shouldn’t be too hard to slip away from this place. He’d located four different escape routes since they’d sat down.

“Good, right?” he asked, as she shovelled another spoonful into her mouth.

Rowan’s eyes lifted from her food. “Yeah,” she agreed, the word muffled, before she swallowed loudly, and said, matter-of-fact, “But mama’s cooking is better.”

His smile stretched to a grin. “Yeah,” Ace said. “I think so, too.”

She looked at him then, her head tilted a bit. “So where are they?” she asked. “My other brothers.”

Ace felt as his smile softened, and he looked down at his plate. Sabo had never liked peaches. “Sabo died,” he told her, quietly, “before you were born.”

Her face fell. It was easily the most expressive face he’d ever seen, barring maybe her mother’s. “Oh.”

Smiling, Ace raised his spoon to indicate himself, refusing to let that expression get comfortable. Sabo wouldn’t have liked that any more than the peaches. “But Luffy is a pirate, like me.”

Her eyes brightened at that, along with her smile. “Really?”

He nodded. “He’ll have set out to sea by now,” he said, casting a glance over the harbour beyond the windows, and the ships moored there. “He was going to, this year.” Knowing his little brother, Luffy wouldn’t have waited even a second past his birthday. Ace wondered where he was now, and if he’d made it out of East Blue yet.

Rowan grinned, seeming delighted by this news. “I wish I could meet him,” she said. Then, carefully, “Where do you think he is now?”

Ace shrugged, smile flashing at the thought, along with a burst of fondness. “Probably causing trouble somewhere. He’ll have reached the Grand Line, unless he’s been delayed. Wouldn’t put it past him, though. He tends to drift wherever the tide takes him.” His smile stretched to a grin, before he told her, gently conspiring, “He’s going to be the Pirate King.”

Her eyes widened to near comical proportions. “The Pirate King?” And she didn’t seem to find that at all unbelievable, even if she’d never met him.

Ace only smiled, and ignored the dull stab of anger at the thought of his old man. He swallowed the bad taste with a mouthful of peaches.

“You said you were a pirate,” Rowan said then, bringing him back from where his thoughts had wandered. “Do you have a crew?” She looked around the room, as though she’d find them lurking under the neighbouring tables.

Ace smiled, although the reminder brought a pang of homesickness. It was a while since he’d seen them. “I do, but I’m on a solo mission right now.”

Her eyes rounded, gobbling up that morsel of information with the same gusto she’d finished all her helpings, all the while managing to still look hungry for more. “What kind of mission?”

He tried to keep the edge out of his smile, but had a feeling he didn’t succeed, by how sharp it felt, cutting his mouth. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“A former crew member of mine.”

She frowned. “Why do you need to find him? Did he get lost?”

Ace chuckled, but it was too hard for cheer. “Something like that.” Then at her look, said, “It’s my duty to bring him back.”

Her frown deepened. “Why do you need to do that?”

“To bring him to justice.”

“Why? What did he do?”

He sighed a laugh, genuine now with her eyes so wide. “Something bad.”

Her eyes rounded further, so full of intrigue now they looked ready to spill over as she whispered, “How bad?”

Ace poked his spoon towards her. “You ask a lot of questions.”

Rowan just stuck her tongue out, and swatted his spoon away with her own. “It’s the only way to learn anything.”

He grinned. “Yeah? Fair enough.”

She considered him from over her dessert, although she seemed hungrier for information now than peaches and cream. But she seemed to have realised she wouldn’t get more out of him concerning Teach, and so instead she asked, “So if you’re here, where’s the rest of your crew?”

Ace made a show of considering whether or not to give her the answer, and watched as her eyes grew bigger, before he smiled, and said, “They’re in the New World.”

Her eyes went so wide he thought they were about to pop out of her skull, and she paused with her spoon halfway to her mouth. “You’re a pirate in the New World?” she blurted. She sounded out of breath, like he'd just told her something of vital importance. “Where the Four Emperors are?”

Ace frowned, observing her. There was something about the way she’d asked that made him pause. “Yeah,” he said, carefully. Then with a grin, gestured to his back, and watched as she craned her neck to get a look at the tattoo there. “Whitebeard is my captain.” He smiled. “You might have heard of him?”

She almost dropped her spoon in surprise, the whole dessert forgotten now as she choked out shrilly, “ _Whitebeard_?”

Multiple heads turned in their direction, and Ace waved them off with a disarming smile—and a wince. “A little louder, if you would,” he murmured under his breath. “I don’t think the marine base two islands over heard you.”

She ignored him. “You’re in Whitebeard’s crew?” she demanded. “Whitebeard the _Emperor_?”

“No, his lesser known cousin, White-stache,” Ace said, and at her glare, grinned. “Why? If you want to join, I’ll have to disappoint you. Pops is pretty strict about who he lets into his crew. I’m pretty sure you have to be at least this tall.” To show her, he held his hand out, three feet above the floor.

His cheek bounced right off her, as though she hadn't even heard him, renewed determination flashing across her dainty features as she put her palms on the table and leaned across it. Even the snake around her neck looked startled, as Rowan demanded, “Take me there.”

Ace blinked. “Take you where?”

“The New World.”

He raised his brows. “Um, no? I should be taking you home to your mom.”

“You can do that after,” Rowan said, cheerfully pole-vaulting straight over that obstacle. “She knows where I am.”

 _I highly doubt that_. “Yeah, that’s not happening,” Ace told her. “It’s way too dangerous for a kid.”

“Please,” she said, and didn’t refute his claim. At least she possessed that much self-awareness, although it didn’t stop her, or put even the slightest damper on her determination. “You don’t understand. I _have_ to go there.”

“Oh yeah?” he mused. “Why’s that?”

Her expression faltered, before she’d reined it back in, and, “Research,” she blurted.

“ _Research_?”

She turned her nose up primly. “Important Kuja business. Like your super secret mission. I can’t reveal anything more. Under pain of death and all that.”

Ace just looked at her, one brow raised. “Sure. Let’s say I believe that, and that you’re not lying through your teeth. Why would that make me agree to take you? Kuja business has nothing to do with me, and even if it is important, it doesn’t make that sea any less dangerous. People die just attempting to make the crossing.”

“People die from spider bites,” she countered. “What’s your point?”

He looked at her, shaking his head, even as he couldn’t quite help the smile. She was Red-Hair’s, alright. “Sorry, cricket,” he said. “I wish I could, but I’m not kidding when I say it’s dangerous. There’s a reason most people never even make it there. And it’s not sea-spiders, although that _would_ be terrifying.”

“But _you_ made it,” she said. Her eyes were large and imploring, and alight with determination. “And you could do it again. Don’t tell me you couldn’t. I won’t believe you.”

Ace didn’t, and watched as she stared him down, as though she’d get the answer she wanted out of him if she just _looked_ at him hard enough.

“Do those eyes work on your mom?” he asked her then. He’d never seen anyone wield eyes like that; like a weapon.

They gleamed now, as Rowan told him pertly, “No, but who do you think taught me how to use them?”

He met her gaze without blinking, and saw how her cheeks puffed up at his blatant demonstration of their ineffectiveness. “The answer is still _no_ ,” Ace told her. “I’m taking you home. End of discussion.”

Now-familiar challenge flashed in her eyes, and he almost feared what was coming when Rowan said, “You can’t take me home—you don’t know where it is. _No one_ does.”

Ace raised a brow. “Yeah, I was kinda counting on you to tell me.”

She shrugged her shoulders delicately. “Too bad. I can’t,” she said. “Kuja laws. Betraying them means _death_.”

He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, and sighed, his head tipped back as he considered the ceiling, as though for guidance, before he asked her, “How do I get you to tell me?” Although from the look on her face, he already knew the answer.

She proved him right when she grinned, and chirped, “If you take me to the New World, I’ll even tell you how to get there.”

“What happened to ‘betraying the laws of my tribe means death’?” he asked dryly.

Rowan didn’t answer, just stared him down from across the table, although now with the self-assured confidence of someone having just secured a victory.

Ace eyed her, even as he felt his conviction faltering. “Your mom has to be worried about you.”

“She knows where I am,” Rowan retorted smoothly, but despite her obvious efforts to conceal it, Ace caught the flicker of guilt in her eyes, before she forged on. “And anyway, if you don’t take me, I’ll just go on my own. So you might as well bring me there yourself. At least that way you can keep an eye on me. Make sure I stay out of trouble.” She flashed a toothy grin, and declared proudly, “I’ve been told I’m a menace.”

Ace was fully inclined to believe her—and to agree with that assessment. For her part, Rowan seemed to find it wholly deserved, and not at all incriminating.

He watched her, caught between decisions. He needed more time to figure out what to do, but she did have a point: if he was with her, he could keep an eye on her. If he lost her now, there was no guarantee he’d ever find her again, or Makino, let alone the Isle of Women. And anyway, if he went back to the New World, he might find Red-Hair again. But before he did, he needed time to put the pieces together, and to come up with some kind of explanation to why Makino had never told her daughter about her past, or her father. If she for whatever reason didn't want Red-Hair to know where she was, or their daughter, Ace wasn't going to be the one who sold her out.

Maybe he could derail her long enough to come up with a plan. He doubted she knew this sea well, which meant she wouldn’t know if he took the longest route possible to get to Sabaody, or if he just skirted it altogether. He was good at distractions; he’d grown up herding Luffy.

“Okay,” Ace said then, pointing a finger at her. “One _tiny_ detour, and then I’m taking you home.”

Rowan grinned. “Deal!”

“I can’t believe I’m being roped into this,” he sighed.

It was her turn to wave him off, as she settled back into her seat, her mouth once again full of dessert as she told him brightly, “You’ll get over it.”

Ace just shook his head, and had to take a moment to wonder when the tables had turned so thoroughly with regard to their advantage. He’d thought he could win her over with information and a free meal, but now he was the one agreeing to ferry her across the Grand Line, when he wasn’t even in a position to readily make that promise.

He thought about his mission, about his duty, and Teach, still somewhere on the sea, left to roam unchecked, and untried for his crimes. He hadn’t meant to return to the New World until he’d caught him, but he couldn’t just abandon Makino’s daughter now that he’d found her. Not the girl who would have been their little sister; who they’d claimed as such before she’d even been born, and who was still that, even if she didn’t know them. And that wasn’t duty, even though it was a responsibility—was a _promise_ , and one he’d made long before any other, to himself, to Makino and Red-Hair. To Luffy.

He looked at the little girl across the table, busy eating her dessert, healthy and cheeky and way too clever for anyone’s good. And he thought of Red-Hair, who’d waited ten years for news, and for even the slightest inkling that she was alive somewhere, along with her mother.

Teach could wait a little longer.

“Do you have a ship?” Rowan asked then. She sounded almost breathless with excitement at the prospect, seeming to have thought of it between bites, the wideness of her dark eyes reflecting the eager eddies of a tiny, sea-hungry heart.

Ace grinned, and tried to feel sufficiently apologetic for her unsuspecting parents, or to muster maybe a shred of the kind of brotherly responsibility that would be able to tell her _no_ , and _it’s too dangerous_ , and _we should totally find a ship, that would be the wise and responsible thing to do given how I’ve been travelling so far: on my certifiably dangerous and fire-fuelled death board_ , but it was hard feeling appropriately conscientious with that much undiluted delight levelled straight at him with those eyes.

“Not exactly.”

 

—

 

Once she’d talked herself into leaving his cabin, Makino spent the afternoon making herself familiar with Red-Hair’s ship.

 _Red Force_ , it was called, and she’d forcibly snuffed out the flicker of irony before it could assert itself, remembering Elder Nyon’s prediction, and the little girl who’d proved it true and more besides. It wasn’t like she needed more reminders of Rowan’s connection to her father, when they found her with every other breath. She wondered now, a little bewildered, how she could have gone so long without realising.

Her thoughts kept her company as she walked the length of the ship, learning passageways and creaking planks, ladders and hidden nooks, half-distracted and without much purpose but to steer clear of its crew and captain, seeking quiet corners to breathe, although absolute privacy wasn’t guaranteed unless she remained cooped up in Red-Hair’s cabin. She’d managed for a while, keeping herself occupied, and from giving in to the temptation of organising his captain’s logs, but a few hours after setting sail, and she’d been so restless Makino thought she could have screamed.

But walking around had helped settle her jitters somewhat, and given her some feeling of control, if only over her surroundings. She’d located the infirmary, and the galley again, bypassing the crew’s quarters before she could run into anyone. She’d found a workshop deep in the hold, and a considerable space dedicated to their cargo, wooden crates and sacks of foodstuffs, bottles of liquor and thick ceramic jugs of sake from West Blue, and barrel upon barrel of ale from every corner of the world, several tavern storerooms’ worth of spirits and food filling the ship’s belly, the dry warmth of which had offered some comfort, before the arrival of some of the pirates had urged her into moving on.

After that, she’d wandered aimlessly, restlessly waiting for the hours to pass, or simply avoiding Red-Hair. Makino didn’t know which was the most pressing need, but it had helped with both.

She was walking down a passageway running through the heart of the ship when she heard voices from the other end, and before they could round the corner and see her, had ducked through the first available door, shutting it behind her.

Heart thundering, Makino listened as they strolled past, feeling out their presences; three pirates, their voices raised and their conversation amicable, but they didn’t pause by the door, or give any indication that they knew she was behind it. She tracked their passage as they retreated, along with their voices, until they’d rounded the corner, and only then did she let out the breath she’d been holding.

Closing her eyes, she rested her brow against the door. She didn’t even know why she was hiding.

With a sigh, she turned to look at the compartment she’d entered, believing it to be nothing more than room for storage, when the sight that greeted her as she turned around halted her in her tracks, and her breath caught with a shudder.

Her hand fell from the door handle as she took a step inside, forgetting her worries about being discovered, and every thought she'd spared the crew on the ship outside as she took in the books lining the walls, stacked from floor to ceiling and crammed together snugly in shelves that looked to have been built to withstand rough sailing, seeming carved out of the ship’s hull, and designed to keep the volumes from tumbling out.

It was a whole library, the whole compartment filled to the brim with _books_ , and more than she could have ever imagined in one place, every available sliver of space filled. There had to be hundreds of volumes, maybe even a thousand, and Makino took them all in with wide eyes as she stepped forward carefully, as though she’d entered into a forbidden place, the silence between the shelves so profound she almost feared to breathe.

A few moments passed where all she did was gawk at them, before she took a tentative step towards the nearest shelf. Her hand shook as she reached out to touch the spines arching towards her fingertips, carefully reverent, tracing titles and embossings, carved in leather and wood and cardboard, with gold leaf and ink. It seemed a curious collection of old and new, expensive and cheap, gorgeous leather-bound volumes that looked to have withstood centuries, and brittle paperbacks whose bindings looked ready to come apart in her hands. Some were stained with salt, and crooked-shaped, their pages bulging between sun-bleached covers, like they'd been fished out of the sea and left on deck to dry. There were historical novels and romances and seafaring tales, epic poems and collections of songs, and a _lot_ of brow-raising bodice-rippers with brightly coloured and artistically indecent covers.

And there were children’s books, filled with ink and watercolour illustrations that could only be conceived by a child's imagination; stories she’d heard in some variant or another passed down in their tribe, pressed with ink in big, bold letters. She found Rowan’s favourite, about the seafaring king, and numerous others, some volumes old and cared-for, while others looked brand new and untouched, their spines without so much as a single wrinkle.

Touching them, too many for her to catalogue, and most of them too high up for her to even reach, Makino shook her head, confused and inexplicably heartsick. Why would an Emperor have so many _books_?

Slipping one volume out of its confines, she considered the cover, tracing a fingertip over the waves engraved in the soft leather, mesmerised by the craftsmanship, the butter-soft binding and gold leafing, probably worth more than she’d ever owned and then some. It certainly couldn’t compare to any book she’d ever owned.

She thought of her meagre collection back on Amazon Lily. Their own stories were passed through word-of-mouth, and they’d only recently started importing goods from the world outside, and only rarely were there books among the cargo they brought back. The few she owned, Makino knew by heart, the pages well-thumbed and their spines bent and wrinkled, but all of them together barely took up a single shelf in her home. Looking at Red-Hair’s collection, she wondered idly if there were any books left in the world. This…this was a treasure trove, although Makino doubted it was meant to be that, even as the volumes had clearly been cared for. The fact that they’d been given their own space on the ship said enough.

Perhaps this was a crew that valued reading, but even thinking it, she found the thought an awkward fit, and there’d been no one present when she’d entered, and she’d felt no one approaching since. But then maybe they were just giving her space, neglecting their usual routines and proclivities in order to allow her to hide away.

Just as she’d finished the thought, she felt him, his presence seeming to reach towards her, even as she shied away from it. And she knew what he sought even before she heard the knock on the door, announcing his entry; an odd courtesy to show her, given that he was the captain, and that it was his ship. But she didn’t comment on it as the door opened, admitting Red-Hair.

He stopped just beyond the door, still held open behind him, and Makino had a thought to wonder if it was for her sake that he didn’t close it. He offered a glance to the shelves, before his gaze settled on the book in her hands, but Makino didn’t put it back, or do anything to suggest she’d been caught snooping where she shouldn’t. He’d told her himself that she could roam free; he hadn’t said any part of the ship was restricted, or that she wasn’t allowed to inspect what she found.

And anyway—she felt a strange reluctance to put the book away now that she had it, to the point where she felt suddenly rebellious at the prospect; as though he’d have to rip it from her hands to make her part with it.

“I just came to say there’s food in the galley,” Red-Hair said. Neither his voice nor his expression revealed what he thought about finding her there. “If you’re hungry.”

“Are all these yours?” Makino asked, before she could stop herself.

She couldn’t decipher the look on his face, and wondered if it was because he purposefully wasn’t letting her. He seemed unusually guarded now, even his presence. Shuttered, as though to keep her out.

“Yeah,” Red-Hair said at length. He glanced at the shelves again, but his gaze didn’t linger on them, as though he didn’t want to. “Just things I’ve collected over the years. I haven’t been down here in a while.”

“You read a lot,” she said, as she put the beautiful book back where she’d found it, her fingers lingering a moment on the spine, before she withdrew another; a stout, dense-looking paperback with gently curling corners. The wonderfully musty smell of an old book tickled her nose as she turned it over in her hands, smoothing her fingers over the glossy cover. It had a rather dashing illustration on the front, depicting a sinfully handsome, bare-chested man poised before a sunset, with an outrageously beautiful woman in the process of swooning in his arms. “And you have…varied tastes.”

She looked up in time to catch a sad smile as it flitted across his expressive mouth, although she thought it seemed in spite of himself. But Red-Hair said nothing, and Makino was once again surprised to discover that she’d expected him to.

He wasn’t meeting her eyes, his focus on the books now, but his gaze hooded and far away. She still couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

She realised she didn’t like it—not being able to read his expression. There’d been an assurance in that, that morning on deck when she’d sought him out for answers, and had found them on his face more than in the things he’d told her. And maybe he’d only let her see because he hadn’t been able to help it, but now that he seemed to have regained control of himself and his reactions, Makino found herself wishing he’d drop his guard again. Even that awful, intimate hurt had been better than this carefully blank composure, which let nothing slip.

“They’re yours,” Red-Hair said then, and when she blinked, startled, added, “to borrow, if you want.” He looked at the shelves again, that crooked not-smile tugging at his mouth, before it relinquished the attempt. “No point in having them if all they’re doing is collecting dust.”

“Oh,” Makino said. She looked at the volume in her hands, and the bare-chested hero. “I might.” Then, quietly, “Thank you.”

Red-Hair only inclined his head in a nod, before he turned and left, closing the door behind him and leaving her standing among the books, feeling abruptly like there was something she’d missed, something vital. But as always, her memory surrendered none of its secrets, even as she had no idea if there were any to give up.

She felt his presence as he retreated, closed to her inquiring touch, before she withdrew, uncertain why she even wanted to know.

She looked at the book in her hands, smoothing the pads of her thumbs over the glossy cover and the swooning lovers, wondering at the story within, and why she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d read it once before.

 

—

 

He made straight for the galley, and found a drink poured for him upon entering, as though they’d known he’d need it, although the look on his face probably demanded it, Shanks thought, as he tossed it back, feeling as it burned down the back of his throat, the kick stronger after so long without it, even as the relief it offered didn’t last longer than the breath it took to gesture for another, and he’d downed that one and a third before he felt like he could make it to the nearest table without falling to pieces.

Ben was already seated, and looked up from his own drink when Shanks sat down heavily on the bench. A plate had been made ready for him, fried rice and lobster, the delicious smell wafting up to fill his nostrils, but he couldn’t have mustered an appetite with a gun to his head.

“I take it asking how it’s going is pointless?” Ben chanced dryly, and Shanks managed what might have been a laugh, if it hadn't broken on his tongue.

“How is she?” Ben asked instead, and Shanks pretended not to notice the whole galley listening in on their conversation. They weren’t being subtle about it, but then they weren’t pretending to be.

“Hiding,” Shanks said. Searching out her presence, he found her in his cabin, although she still had her guard up, as though she found the extra precaution necessary even with several layers of timber between them. But then he had to repeatedly restrain himself from reaching for her, if only to brush his fingertips along the surface, and so maybe she was right to shut him out.

He wondered if she’d brought any of the books with her, but backed away from the thought before it had the chance to hurt him.

“She’s been prowling the ship all afternoon,” Ben mused, with something that almost hinted at a smile. “Idle hands? She never did like sitting still while there was work to be done.”

“Are you suggesting I put her to work?” Shanks asked.

Ben shrugged. “Why not? It’ll help keep her mind occupied. And it might coax her out of hiding in the ship’s bowels like a stowaway.” He looked at him meaningfully, which told Shanks that Ben must have heard where he’d found her earlier, before a small smile tugged at his mouth. “She’s still not good with confrontations.”

Shanks killed his own smile before it could get comfortable. “No,” he said, but couldn’t keep the aching fondness out of his voice. “She’s not.”

He thought about her as he remembered her; shy, but gently combative if prompted, and so easy to tease. It had been so endearing once, those tiny, fumbling hands, and her skittishness at his utter lack of a concept of personal space.

“She used to get so easily flustered,” Shanks said, remembering stolen touches and her cheeks colouring, and her startled laughter catching on her breath, before his smile fell. “Now she looks at me like she’s still considering making good on that promise about the arrow.”

Ben said nothing to that, but his understanding was written in the furrow of his brow. “She came with you,” he said instead.

Shanks just stared at his plate. And he thought it might have been a comfort, the things implied by Ben's words, if it hadn’t been for the day he’d had, wandering his own ship like a lamb without a shepherd, and finding himself repeatedly circling back to his cabin, drawn by her presence, and by the need to see her, or just to hear her voice, to remind himself she was _there_ , and so many times he’d been tempted to throw himself overboard just to _stop_. And drowning would be kinder, although it felt like he was already doing that, feeling like he couldn’t breathe with her near him, even as it felt like she couldn’t be close _enough._

“She can’t make herself stay within two feet of me,” Shanks said. “She always looks for escape routes. And she’s been avoiding me all day, and not subtly, either.” It hurt saying it, like it hurt just facing the truth; that she didn’t trust him anymore. “She thought I _raped_ her, Ben.”

Ben didn’t respond at once, allowing the words to settle between them, along with everything they implied; the things Shanks hadn’t been able to bring himself to touch yet, those ten years she’d spent believing that. He’d been no less a monster than the slavers she’d escaped.

But then, because Ben was Ben, and too practical for maudlin confessions, “She knows you didn’t,” he said. “She wouldn’t have left with us if she believed that.”

Shanks didn’t disagree, but couldn’t find much encouragement in that thought, thinking of how she’d looked at him in his cabin, no recognition in her eyes, and none of the affection that had once felt like the only thing he’d ever wanted. She was so different, and yet undeniably the same girl. And he didn’t know if it would have been easier if she’d been changed completely; if there hadn’t been so many things that were the same as he remembered; if she didn’t keep reminding him with every goddamn breath why he’d fallen in love with her in the first place.

“She called me ‘Captain’,” he said then, because that was the only thing he could think to say. But then he didn't need to explain. Not to Ben.

His best friend of nearly two decades just looked at him. And where there might once have been jokes at his expense, courtesy of his own, foolish heart, there was nothing but a grave understanding now, which sat etched so deep in Ben’s features, Shanks wondered if it had made a permanent place there. And he didn’t need to look around the galley to know the others were wearing similar expressions.

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to make it through this,” Shanks confessed then, voice rough. “I didn’t think this far, when I asked her to come with me. I just needed her to say _yes_ , but now I don’t know how I’m supposed to live, because it's killing me having her  _here_ , when she’s not—”

His voice broke, but instead of trying to salvage the attempt, he let the words trail off into nothingness. But he didn't need to explain that, either. Not to his crew, who’d been present for the past ten years; who'd been with him every step, following leads that had led nowhere, and more dead-end trails than Shanks had kept count; who'd endured the same hope every time he’d thought he’d found something, only to have to endure being proved wrong, again and again. And worst of all: the times he’d believed he’d found her dead, every delicate and small-limbed body of every unnamed woman they'd found, in the Government's keeping or the trafficking rings they'd uprooted; girls who'd been the same age, who'd had similar colouring as her, who he'd believed to be _her_ until he'd seen them, finding no birthmark on their hips, or any of the things he could have identified as hers with his eyes closed. But he’d believed it so many times, had grieved her with every single one, and there’d been a point where he’d been so exhausted from heartsickness he could have begged to be put out of his misery, even if it meant having it confirmed; that she really was dead, and lost to him forever. There'd been a point where he’d _wanted_ it. Any answer had seemed better than not knowing.

The galley was too quiet for anyone to even pretend they were giving him privacy, but Shanks didn’t mind. He had no secrets with his men, and they’d seen him in worse states, even as he didn’t think he’d ever known heartbreak like this. He’d thought he had, losing her, and then searching for her and their daughter without luck all those years, but _this_ …

But he had found her. She was _alive_ , and on his ship, and he would have to keep reminding himself of that, and of what mattered most, while their daughter was still missing.

"I need to find her," Shanks said. "Rowan." Saying her name still left him short of breath, and there was a reckless part of him that wanted to keep saying it, over and over, as though it could somehow make up for the ten years he hadn't known it, or the girl it belonged to. And he wanted to know her, wanted to know everything about her, and could barely keep himself from asking, even as Makino had made it clear she was reluctant to share the information. And he couldn't blame her for that, even if it hurt, knowing so much more than he had only a few days ago, but it wasn't nearly enough. Nothing short of meeting her would be, and even then, Shanks didn't think he could make himself let her go, if that was what Makino wanted.

He couldn't think about that. Not now, or he wouldn't be able to make it another day on his own ship.

Ben smiled then. "Stowed away at ten years old to see the world," he mused, although the old wound in his eyes betrayed his attempted levity; the one that remembered years of scouring endless auction house records, searching for a little girl with red hair. And Ben didn't promise him they'd find her, because he wasn't one to make promises in vain. Instead, he said, "I'll give you grief for the irony later." _When we find her_ , was the unspoken suggestion, and if it was a promise of anything, it was that Ben would try.

Shanks thought he might have managed a laugh, if he'd had it in him. And he'd often brushed off his own recklessness when he'd first set out to sea as a boy, too young and too brash to think about the consequences, but he regretted it now, knowing the sea as he did, and the countless dangers that could greet a little girl, however stubborn and lionhearted.

He hoped Shakky might know something, and thinking about Sabaody brought him back to when he'd last set foot there, so many years ago. He'd only spoken to her a few times since, each one failing to give him answers, and he didn't know what he'd even say to her now, or if she could help him any more this time. He hated himself for _hoping,_ for even now believing he could make a difference, when the past ten years had shown him just how small a difference he could make on this sea, even after conquering it. All the power in his possession, and it hadn't helped him find Makino, who in the end had ended up finding _him_ , and by accident more than anything more predestined.

“Are you going to tell Garp you found her?” Ben asked then, when Shanks' thoughts had drifted back towards his quarters, and the presence there.

Shanks stared at his untouched plate, the meal growing cold, and tried not to notice that Marsh had made his favourite; the one that had been her specialty, and the recipe she’d imparted before they’d left Fuschia. He didn’t think the choice was in any way coincidental.

“I know I should, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to tell him,” he said. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d spoken to the man, but it had been years, and Garp’s own lack of calls said enough about his own luck in finding anything on Makino. “She doesn’t remember anyone from that part of her life. And she’s already overwhelmed as it is.”

Ben was silent, seeming to consider the words, turning their options over in his mind. He looked tired, Shanks thought, but then the past two days had taken an emotional toll on them all. “It might be an idea to wait a bit,” Ben said then. “Let her get used to us. See if anything jogs her memory.”

Shanks said nothing. He thought of her among the books he’d collected, not so much as a hint of recognition in her eyes, even as he’d recognised the gentle marvel in them; one of so many remnants of the girl as he remembered her. “What if nothing does?” he asked then, even as what he meant was  _what if I can’t?_

His first mate looked at him, quietly assessing, even as Shanks didn’t know what he was looking for. But before Ben could say anything, the door to the galley opened, and every head turned towards it to find Makino there.

She hadn’t changed out of the clothes she’d come aboard wearing, but Shanks saw that she’d left her cloak in his cabin, along with her fighting leathers, the soft fabric of her dress hugging her small frame now, layers of sage green and slate grey; a snug wool kirtle with slit skirts over tight-fitting trousers, and supple leather boots laced to her thighs. A sheer linen blouse with tightly laced sleeves covered her arms, slit open at the shoulders, the palest yellow embroidered with tiny red flowers, like the red scarf braided through her hair.

There was a moment where Shanks thought she’d turn on her heel and walk back out, before she straightened her shoulders and entered, headed straight towards their cook without sparing anyone even a fleeting glance. He saw how tightly her hands were clenched, even as she’d left her bow behind. A show of goodwill, maybe, because he doubted it was an accidental omission.

Marsh—big as a bear, and quiet as few souls could be who’d been with his crew as long as he had—filled a plate for her, and Shanks refrained from looking too long at the careful hope in his expression as Makino observed the offering, before murmuring a word of thanks as she turned to walk back to his cabin. No one stopped her.

The door closed behind her, leaving the galley quiet, and that something of a feat, with his whole crew gathered. She hadn’t looked his way once, even as Shanks knew she’d felt him, and that she’d made a point not to meet his eyes.

“It’s still her,” Ben said then, after a lull, even as the remark seemed to defy the truth; the wary woman who kept her distance, who didn’t trust him with her life, let alone her story. “And you still love her.”

“I’ve loved her for ten years,” Shanks said, because that truth hadn’t changed, even if their situation had. “I didn’t _stop_.” And admitting the truth hurt less than living with it, but fuck, it _hurt._ “But it doesn't change anything. I can't do anything about the fact that she doesn’t remember loving me back.”

And maybe that was what weighed the heaviest on his heart; not that she didn’t remember him, that she didn’t look at him the same way she had once, but the thought that she never would. Even if he were to tell her everything, about who she’d been and their history, of how they'd first met and how she'd changed everything, it still wouldn’t change how she looked at him, or who he was to her now. Even if she could eventually bring herself to trust him, he would still be nothing more to her than the man who’d fathered her child. Trust wasn’t love. _Trust_ didn’t even brush the surface of what she’d felt for him once, and Shanks couldn’t make her feel that way any more than he could make her remember that she had.

A thought found him then, as sudden as the flare of hope it stoked within him, and he looked up to find Ben’s brows lifting, curious, as Shanks told him, “Maybe she doesn’t have to remember.”

Amusement winked in Ben's eyes. “I know that look.” Then he added wryly, “And from experience, I know I should probably be concerned. Or start making a list of contingencies.”

Shanks wasn’t listening, the thought seized now like a lifeline. “There was a reason she fell in love with me,” he said. And had the situation been different, he might have remarked that Ben had no glib comment to offer that statement, but as it was, he was too distracted to notice. Even Ben seemed intrigued by his sudden change, as Shanks looked at him, his resolve firming as he said, “So I’ll just remind her what it was.”

Ben’s raised brows didn’t suggest lack of understanding, but rather that he’d picked up on exactly where he was going.

His breath felt suddenly light in his chest. And he thought about her, standing among the books; thought about all the little things that were still _her_ , even if she remembered nothing of who she’d been. But it didn’t matter who she was now. It didn’t change how he felt about her, and didn’t make his longing for her any less fierce, learning new things about her—that she could hold her own against one of the most feared pirates in the world, wearing a blindfold, and that she could challenge even Yasopp’s aim with a bow and arrow. That she loved their daughter more than anything, more than her own home, so much that she’d accepted exile and even death without flinching.

He didn’t want to let her go now that he’d found her. She was it for him; he’d left Fuschia knowing that, and had been fully prepared to come back for that. And she was the mother of his child; the little girl who was so much like him she hadn’t been able to wait for the sea. He wanted them both, and so fiercely he could barely breathe past the thought.

“Maybe she’ll never remember me, or what we had,” Shanks said, ignoring the hurt that gripped his heart at the thought, pushing forward instead. “But if that’s the case, I’ll just start over. I’ll court her again. From the beginning.”

“Oh,” Yasopp breathed a laugh from the neighbouring table, and Shanks saw that he was grinning. “This calls for a betting pool.”

They were all grinning now, their earlier despondency abandoned in favour of what had been put before them, and Shanks heard as their voices lifted towards the ceiling, a roar of laughing approval, and calling for Ben to get his ledgers. And caught in the throes of their excitement, their unbridled delight and the confidence that accompanied it, the crew who'd loved her as long as he had, Shanks could barely catch his breath, feeling utterly, stupidly _hopeful_ , and like he wasn’t a fool for believing it—that he could still have her, after everything. That she might one day find it in herself to accept him, and to say _ask me again._

“What, no warning?” Shanks asked Ben, who’d been silent in the wake of his declaration. His voice sounded thick, and he wasn’t trying to temper his expression now, or the hope he knew was written across it. “You’re not going to tell me that this is a terrible idea, and that I should just leave well enough alone?”

Ben's smile looked startlingly genuine—and characteristically dry. “I ran out of good ideas years ago,” he said. He met his eyes, but there wasn't a hint of derision in his voice when he said simply, “And I would see you happy. Both of you.”

Shanks said nothing, and Ben's smile quirked, some of the pensive weight lifting off his brow as a familiar gleam entered his eyes, one that invoked a long-ago evening, in a bar on the other side of the world. A different time, and a different captain, but whose heart had made the same choice, stubbornly in spite of terrible odds.

“So I think I’d like to see how this pans out," Ben said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I give Makino amnesia and spin a big, canon divergent plot with intersecting storylines just so I could write her falling in love with Shanks again?
> 
> Yes. Yes, I did.


	10. my love, remind me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay, but have two new chapters! This year hasn't been the easiest so far, but I've really appreciated the love and excitement so many of you have shown for this story. You make it so much fun to write it, and I really hope you enjoy the continuation!

The sea was strewn with diamonds, like one of Hime-sama’s headpieces had come apart, thousands of tiny white crystals bobbing on the surface of the water, reflecting the sunlight.

Or at least that's what it looked like from where she sat on the wharf, shielded by the soft shade of a towering stack of ship’s crates, kicking her legs from her perch atop one as she watched the bay, the daily bustle churning around her as she listened to the water, and the world down below.

Munching on the apple in her hand, crisp and juicy and red as her hair, Rowan observed the deckhands working, busy unloading a ship that had drawn into port while she’d been sitting there: a lithe, plucky schooner in glossy dark wood, whose name sounded like the way the shore looked at sunset, bringing crates of port and brandy, and whiskey from South Blue.

Her belly was full, her satchel stuffed to bursting with apples, more than she could eat, and the sun warmed the air, a gentler heat here where there was wind to ease the burden. She watched where it cracked taut the canvas of the incoming ships, and stirred the surface of the water, bright and glittering. It never looked like this back home.

Ashore, a playful breeze teased her hair loose from her hood, making her smile. The wind had many voices, although she was just learning to know them, but knew now that they could be loud, and soft, and laughing, and knew the wind had many names, some that tasted sharp, like cold metal in her mouth, and others that were no more than a sigh.

She loved the wind, loved what it felt like, and what it made of the sea, and the sensation of soaring over the water, as close to flying as she’d ever get.

Ace let her piggy-back, the little raft he used to travel requiring his devil fruit to power it, and she kept the curious sea kings from coming near. They didn’t know her here, like the ones back home, but they listened when she asked them politely to let them pass.

She liked Ace. He knew a lot about the sea, and answered most of her questions. He didn’t know all that much about ships, not like she did, but he liked listening to her talk, and never told her she was talking too fast, or too much.

She’d never imagined the idea of a brother, for obvious reasons, let alone three, who’d all loved her before she’d even been born. But she thought Ace seemed like a big brother should be. She had many sisters, but none who were just hers, and who she didn’t have to share with her whole tribe. It had always been just her and her mother, although if what Ace had told her was true, it hadn’t always been that way. Rowan wanted to believe it.

Of course, she was rather alone in that.

 _I don’t trust him_.

The core of the apple crunched when she chewed it, muffling her answer. “You’ve said that already.”

_Well it’s true! It’s too convenient. If any of it were true, why hasn’t your mother told you?_

Rowan swallowed, and considered what remained of the apple in her hand. Her fingers were sticky, and she wiped them on her pants. “I don’t know,” she murmured, before popping the rest in her mouth.

Ceto had nothing to say to that. She’d curled up inside her hood, her scales cool against her skin, but Rowan felt her restless temper in the constant twitching of her tail, tugging at her mother’s anchor.

“He knew her name,” Rowan said then. She’d gone over their exchange in her head, but there was nothing she’d done that could have given it away, unless he could read minds, and Rowan didn’t think he could. “Why would he know her name?”

Ceto remained quiet, although her silence was in no way agreement, Rowan felt, a twinge petulant.

“I don’t know what’s true,” she admitted at length, watching the sea where it stretched out from the port. It hadn’t seemed so big from the shore back home. And they’d only gone from one island to the next, but the distance seemed much bigger than she’d imagined it would be. It had been evening when they’d set out, and they’d only stopped once at a small outpost to rest. She’d fallen asleep sometime after that, and the sun had been coming up when Ace had carried her ashore. Now it poured from the sky, warming even the shade where she’d sought refuge among the crates.

She didn’t know which direction Amazon Lily was from here, or how far it was. They must have noticed she was gone by now, and she wondered what they thought, and if they’d told her mother yet.

Thinking of home made her chest feel tight, like a piece of the apple had gotten stuck on the way down, and she didn’t know why. She’d always wanted to see the world, but she’d imagined it would be different. That home wouldn’t feel so far away.

She thought about what her mother would always say, whenever she left with Hime-sama and the others.

 _The best part of travelling is coming home,_ she’d tell her, and tap her nose gently, smiling. _When I keep home in mind, the voyage doesn’t feel so long, or the sea so vast._

She missed her mama then, the feeling so fierce her breath rushed out. Hastily, she scrubbed at her eyes, but the stubborn tears insisted, and so she just allowed them to run. She couldn’t hide her feelings from Ceto anyway.

 _We should go home_ , she said, quietly.

“No,” Rowan said. Her voice sounded thick, and she swallowed. “Not yet. I’ve come this far, I can’t just turn back now. Not until I know for sure.”

_Why is it so important to know? There are many hatchlings who don’t know who fathered them._

Rowan opened her mouth to protest, before she closed it again. And she didn’t really know why it mattered so much, only that it did. And she didn’t know how it all tied together, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow connected to what Ace had told her, about her mother’s past. It had to be.

She didn’t know why her mother had hid it; the place she’d come from in East Blue. Rowan didn’t know why she’d left, and when she’d asked him about it, Ace had said he didn’t know either, although there’d been something about his answer that had made her pause. But whatever reason she’d had for leaving, Rowan didn’t understand why she hadn’t just told her she didn’t come from Amazon Lily. She wasn’t the only one who’d been born off the island.

Maybe it had something to do with her father.

“Mama never told me who he was,” she said, considering her thoughts, lined up like the sea shells she’d pick along the shore back home. “She said she would, but she never did. And she’s been hiding that, so why couldn’t she have been hiding this, too?”

 _Then you should ask your mother,_ Ceto stressed. _Ask her to tell you the truth, don’t just take the word of a stranger. And a man!_

“At least he’s telling me _something_ ,” Rowan shot back.

_Have you considered that there might be a good reason why your mother kept it a secret?_

Folding her lips, Rowan didn’t answer. But she had considered it, and she felt Ceto’s satisfaction as her silence stretched on, as though she’d somehow proved her point by not answering.

And they’d had this conversation already before she’d left Amazon Lily. Rowan knew about Red-Hair, knew he was one of the strongest pirates in the world, and her aunts had always told her to be wary of men with power, and no one had more power than the Four Emperors.

But the sea kings had told her he wasn’t like the others.

 _He stirs the surface, not the deep_ , they’d said, when she'd asked. Their voices were like deep sea currents, always shifting, and hard to tell apart, but she’d learned how.

 _He is not like the rest,_ they’d told her, the sea within her echoing their words, which weren't words at all.  _Like the one who shifts the seabed, the white whale. Or her, who is chaos incarnate. And the beast. He is not the beast._

They’d hissed the last part, anger and confusion making their voices churn like a building whirlpool, but they’d calmed when Rowan had asked them more questions, treading the water with her legs, unafraid of the depths. They weren’t so scary when you knew what was at the bottom.

 _He asks us for passage_ , they’d said, a curious note of respect in their hundred voices. _He knows how. Not many do._

She didn’t know what that meant, but they had made it sound important. Sea kings weren’t like humans, the things they said didn’t always make sense, but she tried her best to understand their feelings, if not their words. And they respected Red-Hair, which was good enough for her.

 _He searches_ , they’d told her, but when she’d asked them what for, they’d been silent. But it had given her courage, hearing that. It had reminded her of her favourite story, about the seafaring king who’d given his whole kingdom for the queen he’d lost.

For her part, Ceto hadn’t been very impressed.

 _Why trust anything they say?_ she’d asked. _They never come up from the deep!_

But whatever the truth was, Rowan wanted to find out for herself, not just accept what the grown-ups were saying, or even the sea kings. At least that way she’d know for sure who Red-Hair was, and what kind of man he was.

And she’d come this far. She couldn’t give up now.

“If I go back,” she said, “I won’t be able to leave again. Mama won’t let me until I’m old enough.”

 _Maybe that’s for the best_ , Ceto implored. _They have good reasons for keeping the hatchlings on the island until they are grown. You are in over your head already, and we haven’t even reached the New World! What will you even do once we get there?_

“I’ll figure it out. Ace said he’s in Whitebeard’s crew. Maybe he knows how to find the other Emperors.”

 _If that’s even where he’s taking you,_ Ceto retorted. _What if he’s taking you somewhere else?_

“Where else would he be taking me?” Rowan asked. “What would he even get from lying to me?”

Ceto said nothing, but Rowan felt justified in her logic.

_Why do you trust him so easily?_

Chewing on her cheek, Rowan considered the question, one she’d asked herself several times already. But she didn’t know what it was. It was just a sense, rooted deep in her gut, as natural as her other senses, which told her when to wait, and when to flee.

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, plucking at her shirt. Ace had gotten her new clothes, something a little more suited the changing climates than the thin dress she’d left home wearing; the one her mother had made her. “I just do.”

Ceto probably had a protest ready, but she wasn’t given the chance to deliver it when Ace was suddenly there, striding out onto the wharf from the town where he'd gone earlier, to look for news. The sun made him stand out from the crowd, a riot of colour with his bright orange hat and flower tattoos, blue and white and pink against his skin, the rest brown with freckles.

There was an eager spring in his step that hadn’t been there when he’d left her earlier, Rowan noticed, as she looked up to observe him approaching.

“Cricket!” he called. He was grinning, and if he noticed that she’d been crying, he didn’t show it.

She saw then that he was carrying something, a sheet of paper gripped between his fingers as he jogged up to where she was sitting on the crates. His smile looked even wider than before when he told her, “You’ll never guess what I found.”

Rowan watched as he held up the sheet of paper, which she quickly realised was a wanted poster, taking in the picture and the bold, black print, and her eyes rounded as they landed on the name printed below the photograph, which showed a grinning face beneath the wide brim of a straw hat.

"Monkey D. _Luffy_?"

 

—

 

 _Sea-maiden_ , said a voice, salt-roughed, and warm like the surface of the clear green shallows she couldn’t remember, the ones she’d waddled through on small, uneven legs, a calloused hand in hers and a voice snapping at her to be careful, white-blonde hair lit by the sun and glacial blue eyes always keeping her in sight, and a smile threatening on a hard mouth at her giggles. The same shallows she’d waded through, her legs steadier, her red frock lifted carelessly and the hem soaked with seawater, white sea shells in the soft palm of her hand and a book tucked into the waistline of her apron, as blue as the sky. And that she’d walked through calmly, her feet bare and her boots discarded in the sand, her belly large and heavy, and their restless baby moving under her gently calloused hands as she hummed sea songs without words, feeling a little closer to him with the surf around her ankles, his world not as far as it felt sometimes but rather a part of her, and their child within her, born from the sea in the water of her womb.

She dreamed of those shallows more often than she remembered—imagined a long, white beach and green water, red-roofed houses and white-washed walls beside a wide, oiled porch, and the song of swinging doors and softly clinking glasses, of loud laughter and boots stomping to the beat of her heart, and beneath it all, that warm, deep voice, speaking words that had felt like a promise, once.

_You’ll have me forgetting the horizon yet._

 

—

 

She woke up as she hit the planks, the sudden impact so jarring it took Makino a full second to realise what had happened, and where she was, still wrapped in the sheets where she’d tumbled off the bunk.

It took her another to understand the reason for the rude awakening.

And that the ship was _tilting._

Kicking off the sheets and scrambling for the shutters, she threw them open, only to find the sea slamming back against the glass, the world outside nothing but water, black and wet. It was so dark, it couldn’t even be dawn yet.

Panic jumped in her chest when the ship shuddered, reminded of the storm that had greeted them when they’d first entered the New World, and once again she was on an unfamiliar vessel, this time without her crew.

The ship groaned as it canted sharply to the side, and she felt the force of the sea where it crashed against the hull and the deckhouse, making the whole vessel lurch, like a child’s toy tossed around a tub.

Beyond the captain’s quarters, she sensed the others, finding Red-Hair’s crew awake and out on deck. And when she listened, she heard them, their voices raised to shouting, reaching through the timbers towards her.

Looking down at herself, in nothing but her thin underdress, her feet bare and her hair unbound, indecision held her a second, before another wave crashed against the portholes, and then she was making for the door, stumbling down the passageway as the ship canted again. She had to cling to the bulkhead to keep herself upright, before she lurched into the cold dark of the galley, empty of both light and people. Even their cook was missing.

She stumbled between the benches and tables, all of them securely bolted to the planks, although she spied several upturned tankards and plates scattered by her feet as she passed, before ripping open the door to reveal the deck outside—and the chaos.

The storm crashed against her, a furious howl of wind and water that ripped at her loose hair and her shift, soaking through it within seconds, the cold crippling where it seized her in a vice. The black sky was heavy and the sea heaving, and the dark was pervasive, the lamps on deck extinguished, making it hard to see anything in front of her.

Rain and seawater filled her eyes, but Makino blinked it away, frantic gaze sweeping the busy deck where the crew was working to secure the sails.

Standing at the helm, Red-Hair turned towards her as she exited the deckhouse, his brow furrowing sharply at the sight of her, a captain’s disapproval, and his broad shape a commanding wall before her as he crossed the deck to intercept her, blocking her view with the drape of his black cloak where the wind whipped it around him. The sea clung to his long lashes, rivulets of seawater running down his face to gather in his dark beard and the hair on his chest, bared by his partially open shirt, but he hardly seemed bothered by the cold, or the weather.

“Go back inside,” he told her. He had to raise his voice over the roar of the sea and the storm, but it cut through both clearly, edged with a command, although even as she bristled at the dismissal, it was easier to bear than the note of concern lacing the deep timbre of his voice.

Makino caught his gaze where it flicked down to look at her. Her soaked underdress clung to her body, the fabric made see-through by the rain and the thin linen leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, but his eyes lingered only a second before they seized hers, and although the intensity in them was for a different reason than disapproval now, it wasn’t any kinder.

Beyond the railing, the waves rose tall as mountains, water rushing across the deck at steady intervals, although it didn’t uproot the pirates, who were busy fighting to roll up the sails. The storm must have caught them unawares, although she’d learned enough about the New World in her short time sailing it to recognise that even experienced crews couldn’t predict every turn of the weather.

Her heart was a lifeline, steady in her chest as she looked up at Red-Hair where he towered above her, so tall she had to tilt her head back just to meet his eyes, but she didn't cower, and her voice was firm when she told him, “I want to help.”

Red-Hair didn't budge, and neither did the hard expression on his face. He was using his height against her now. "We've got it covered."

Makino pursed her mouth. She had to shout just to be heard over the storm. "I can still help!"

This time, he glared. "I'm not saying you can't, but I'd rather you—"

A shout rose up from the main deck below, cutting him off, and they both turned towards it, just in time to watch a monstrous wave cresting before the bow, although they were barely given a second to process it before it struck.

Makino felt the impact where it shuddered through the whole ship, and watched the sea as it rushed across the deck, charging towards them faster than she could look for something to grab on to, but before she could even react, Red-Hair had moved.

His arm came around her waist, pulling her back to his chest as he put his own to the oncoming wave, taking the brunt of the impact, his body shielding her from the worst of it.

It was the first time he'd touched her, and the contact seized her breath even before the wave hit, which would have taken her legs out, Makino thought, if Red-Hair hadn't been holding her. His footing barely even budged as the water rushed around their ankles, and back over the railing as the ship righted itself.

The strong arm around her waist dug into her ribs, the muscles in his veined forearm flexed where her small hands gripped it, although she didn't know if she was doing it to hold on to him or to shove him off her.

She heard his heartbeat, loud in the void within her, and she couldn't breathe, pressed back against his hard chest where he'd curved his bigger frame around hers, and all of him so close she couldn't focus on anything but his body behind her.

It lasted only a few seconds, and then he'd released her, his arm letting go as she stumbled away from him, her breath rushing out of her as she did, while Red-Hair turned around to observe the deck, and the crew busy trying to wrest back control of the ship as the storm continued to rage, showing no signs of letting up.

The sails, Makino saw then. The heavy canvas was sagging as they fought to roll it up, struggling against the wind and the elements, and the water made holding on to the rigging difficult, and most had diverted their focus to the rudder.

Catching her look, Red-Hair's brow furrowed sharply, as though he knew what she was thinking, but before he could repeat his earlier order, Makino was moving past him, bare feet steady on the slippery planks, and she heard his voice calling after her. " _Makino_!"

She didn't even glance back, striding through the storm. The air was wet, and water beaded her lashes thickly, but she only blinked it away, and set her sights on the mainmast.

She didn’t wait or ask for permission, and acted before he could deny her, pushing off the deck as she climbed up the length of the mast, and so fast she felt the hundred gazes below where they followed her up, but didn't let their attention deter her, her hands sure and nimble on the rigging, swinging herself up on the yard as she grabbed for the ropes, to help roll up the main sail.

The pirate on the opposite end of the yard caught her gaze—a big, hulking figure of a man with a monkey hanging off his broad shoulders. He had dark, deep-set eyes, and Makino held them, a silent challenge offered with the lift of her chin, and she caught his gaze fleeting down to Red-Hair, before he gave a sharp nod and shouted something over the wind. She didn’t catch what it was, but understood the gist, and when he made to haul up the soaking canvas, she moved to assist.

Her heart pounded in her ears, as loud as the sea, a momentary fear gripping her freezing limbs, still not used to these waters and their temper, and how it could even threaten a ship as sturdy as this, and a captain as steady as Red-Hair, whose feet hadn’t slipped even an inch on the planks, but who remained, an immovable pillar on the deck below, and within her mind.

She heard his voice over the din, louder than the sea where he issued commands to the crew on deck. Makino felt it in her chest, before she forced her attention away from it.

A new wave rocked the ship, making her hands fumble the ropes to keep herself from falling, and she felt Red-Hair reacting, his voice raised with her name, which jolted through her like a second wave, but she’d reclaimed her balance a breath later, clinging to the yard as the ship pitched sideways, refusing to let the sea unseat her. She’d weathered worse storms than this.

Her hands were red and chafing from the cold when they were done securing the sail, but a quick glance across the deck saw that they were struggling with the topsail on the foremast.

Raising herself up, Makino considered the distance between the masts, and the steep plunge to the deck below, which could kill her if she slipped. The sea clung greedily to her body, like the fabric of her dress, but she didn’t linger any longer with her discomfort than she did with her indecision, breathing in once before she shifted her weight.

The monkey on the broad man’s back chittered in alarm, and she heard his protest when he realised what she meant to do, but she didn’t heed either of them as she shoved off the mainmast in a dive, soaring through the wind and the sea spray before she caught the slippery ropes, only to swing herself up onto the yard of the top mast sail.

The rain pelted against her back where she perched, so high up it felt like the whole sky was bearing down on her, the droplets so hard and cold, they felt like needles where they struck her bare skin, but she wasn’t thinking about herself, only what needed to be done, the ship suddenly not an enemy’s ship but just any other, and she a part of its crew.

Breathing with her stomach, she hummed the first few notes of the shanty she’d heard them singing the day before, too low to be picked up by anyone beneath her, but it helped centre her focus, feeling her voice where it thrummed through her chest, the song anchoring her mind and her fear, keeping her steady as she sang about the captain who longed for the girl with the soft white thighs and the bottomless eyes.

Her hands worked, almost of their own accord, and she didn’t think about the cold or the heaving sea; thought instead of late evenings at Aster’s with the tribe that was hers, and the little girl she loved, who lived and laughed and sang louder than anyone, and it settled her rudderless heart, allowing her to work unhindered by her own fears.

And it felt _good_ , and so much that she almost forgot where she was, and who she was with, feeling instead only the rush of the water and the blood within her, and the song, rising up from her depths, singing now to the accompaniment of the storm, and the waves where they rose and fell in that terrible, roaring harmony.

The topsail secured, Makino lifted her face to the sea beyond the bow. Her hair was plastered to her face, to her back, and she hurt all over from the cold, but in that moment she couldn’t stop smiling, a wild, almost reckless laugh rising up within her.

Her hands shook as she checked that the sails were secure, before adjusting her grip on the yard, using the ropes to aid her descent as she dropped back down onto the deck, landing nimbly on her feet.

The wind was still howling, but the storm had yielded a bit, enough for the ship to sit upright on the water, and she felt the responding cheers where they rippled through the crew around her; one that didn’t shy away from rough weather, but knew to thank the sea they sailed for small allowances.

Someone clapped her shoulder in passing, a delighted laugh reaching her over the din, before another hand followed, and another. And she didn’t even think about the fact that they were touching her, too high on adrenaline to focus past the relieved laugh still threatening at the bottom of her stomach.

She was freezing wet, her thin shift dripping along with her hair, heavy and unbound where it hung down her back, and coming down from her high, Makino shivered, the cold sea air cutting her skin right to her bare bones.

Abruptly, she became uncomfortably aware of how sheer the thin fabric of her dress was, and how much it revealed where it clung to her body, her breasts showing, along with everything else. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath, and had nothing to cover herself.

Something heavy was dropped over her shoulders, making her start, and she looked up in time to catch Red-Hair striding past her, having shrugged off his cloak.

She couldn’t move, frozen under the warm weight of it where it dwarfed her, and watching as he strode across the deck, just in his shirtsleeves now, the left tied to a knot, but unmindful of the rain where it soaked through the fabric instantly, his voice raised above the sea and his crew, loud and commanding as he called for someone to give him an update on how much damage they’d suffered.

Makino watched him go, heart hammering painfully in her chest and her heels rooted to the planks, her whole body seized by the sensation, and so fiercely it held even her breath captive.

Water clung to the outside of the cloak, running off it in thick droplets, the fabric curiously resistant, but the inside was dry, and warmed by his body.

It smelled of him. The realisation struck her almost as hard as the warmth and the heaviness over her shoulders, overwhelming her senses now, even after the storm had run its course, had soaked her shift and her skin until it was raw from the cold, but all of that felt like a kindness compared to how hard this hit her.

Her hands trembled where they lifted to tug the cloak closer, feeling how it bled warmth back into her freezing body, along with the heat from his—but more than anything, she felt how it shielded her, from the sea and the eyes on deck, although she didn’t know why that should strike her so hard, but for some reason she couldn’t seem to tear her mind away from it.

She didn’t know what it was, recognition or something else, remembering Rayleigh—the sense of safety, and certainty, his cloak over her shoulders after the auction house, feeling small and exposed in that awful white shift with her big, pregnant belly and her daughter kicking under her hands. But even reaching for that memory, one of the few she had from that time that she could bear recalling, it didn’t feel like the right one.

She’d felt this before, Makino realised. Not with Rayleigh but with Red-Hair, but even looking for it, she couldn’t recall that memory, even the smell of him filled her nose, sea and gunpowder and something she had no name for but that she _knew,_ Makino was certain of that. She didn’t remember, but she _felt._

And she didn’t know why that was somehow worse.

 

—

 

Breakfast was served hot, and with a glass of whiskey.

It wasn’t even dawn, the storm outside still roaring where it crashed against the portholes, the glass fogging, too wet for her to perceive anything of the horizon. It was only the sea, wild and terrible and furious.

In sharp contrast, the interior of the galley was warm and welcoming. Several oil lamps had been lit on the long tables, throwing cheerful shadows along the blackened beams above, and the smell of Marsh’s cooking filled the compartment like the warmth slowly seeping back into her body where she dried off by the stove, the fire within crackling merrily as the storm wailed outside.

She’d claimed a seat away from the crew, only the cook in near proximity, and had been relieved when Marsh hadn’t tried to engage her in conversation, had just filled her a steaming bowl and put it before her. And she’d barely lifted the spoon to her lips when one of the pirates had cheerfully poured her a tumbler of whiskey, before moving to take a seat on the other side of the galley with the others.

The hot oatmeal filled her stomach, generous spoonfuls of honey having been heaped into her bowl without her asking, although Makino didn’t know whether that was coincidence or something the cook remembered, but didn’t ask, too busy eating, and feeling how it warmed her belly where she sat, still wrapped in Red-Hair’s cloak and the din of conversation where it filled the galley, seeming to ward off the wind and the sea still crashing against the ship outside.

The cloak was soft, and comfortably heavy across her shoulders, engulfing her where she sat with her legs pulled up on the chair, the high collar brushing her cheek. The inside was lined with red, and didn’t chafe her skin like the cold had, sighing instead softly against it when she shifted.

Her hair was drying slowly, like her shift, and she might have excused herself to change, but found herself curiously reluctant, observing the galley and the pirates in it, shaking the water from their clothes and pouring each other drinks to warm up, all of them drying off and laughing, their high spirits untouched by the early hour and the weather.

The door opened then, admitting Red-Hair, the last to return from the deck, no doubt having lingered to see if the storm would worsen. He brought the sea with him, a flurry of wind and water, before shutting the door firmly behind him, only to be greeted by a rousing holler from the galley’s occupants.

“Boss!” someone called, before they all lifted their glasses with a cheer, and Makino caught his grin, the first truly genuine one she’d seen since stepping aboard, and she hadn't expected it, having grown accustomed to his seriousness and hurt, and with her attention seized, couldn’t drag her eyes away from it now where it split his face.

He was soaked to the bone, his wet shirt clinging to his muscled frame, the rain having turned the fabric sheer where it draped from his wide shoulders. He'd rolled the right sleeve up over his bicep, and Makino watched the thick muscle flexing as he raised his hand to drag his fingers through his hair, tipping his head back as he pushed it away from his brow. It was dripping water, drenched like the black stubble of his beard where he reached up to wipe it with his fingers, in a gesture so unexpectedly erotic, she wasn't prepared for her own reaction.

Heat punched right through the bottom of her stomach, leaving her short of breath, and suddenly the room was uncomfortably warm.

As though he'd sensed her gaze on him, Red-Hair's hand paused on his chin, and Makino caught his gaze where it flicked to hers, but averted her eyes before he could catch her staring, although she had to snap her mouth shut when she realised, to her horror, that she'd been gaping.

It was a small relief when he excused himself to get a change of clothes, and despite her repeated attempts at withstanding the compulsion, she couldn't keep her gaze from tracking his passage through the galley—and worse yet, from noticing the way his wet shirt insisted on highlighting every muscle in his back where it clung to his broad frame, undeniably masculine, and absolutely ridiculous.

Lifting her glass, she tossed back her whole drink in one gulp, the whiskey like fire where it licked her chest, all the way down to her belly, but it helped distract her as Makino forced her thoughts onto a safer track, and away from wet shirts and infuriatingly broad shoulders, and the fact that she’d apparently left her wits in his quarters when she’d fallen out of bed.

“Sea’s in a fine mood this morning,” Yasopp said, approaching the stove to get his bowl refilled, and making her start—and when she saw his widening grin, knew he hadn’t missed where her eyes had gone. He chirped, “She’ll catch you with your pants down if you’re not prepared.”

He very deliberately didn’t mention the cloak around her shoulders, or her thin dress beneath, although Makino still caught the teasing suggestion, before he said, “Not that you let that stop you. Those were some damn impressive manoeuvres!” With a laugh, he raised his glass to her, before it was echoed by the rest of the galley.

On his way to his quarters, Makino caught Red-Hair’s smile from out of the corner of her eye before he ducked through the door, and this time, pointedly kept her gaze fixed on Yasopp, and from fleeting back across the galley, tugged as though at a string by the shape of his mouth.

She watched as Yasopp took a seat across the table nearest to where she was sitting. He’d dried off a bit, although his dreadlocks were heavy with water where they hung over his nape, wrapped with a colourful scarf not unlike the kind she preferred.

“You know your way around a ship,” he observed then. It was the first attempt anyone had made to engage her in conversation, and she felt the rest of the crew’s collective interest, although they were making a show of pretending not to eavesdrop.

The eyes holding hers from across the table were keen, sharp arrow-points nocked along a bowstring as Yasopp remarked casually, “But then I’ve heard my share about Boa Hancock’s crew. You’re not just known for being warriors.”

It was carefully offered, and without revealing just how much he knew about the Kuja. And the Isle of Women was a legend, but Makino had to wonder then, just how much Red-Hair knew about them. Did he know where it was located?

The thought was chilling, and she tugged the cloak a little tighter around her shoulders, before she started, wondering suddenly what it meant that she hadn’t taken it off.

Yasopp was still looking at her, and she couldn't tell if he was considering her or waiting for a response, and didn’t know what prompted her to say it, but, “I’m less familiar with weather like this,” Makino replied at length.

It was true. On account of the lack of wind, they didn’t have storms in the Calm Belt, only torrential rain, but she held her tongue before she could add that, lest it reveal too much about their island’s location.

Yasopp’s smile slanted, suddenly knowing. “Yeah, I know what you mean. I hail from East Blue, so I was used to smooth sailing before I came here.” He shook his head, the gleam in his eyes hinting at a story.

The urge seized her, to ask, but she held her tongue. She’d always loved learning people, and hearing their stories, but she didn’t want to let her guard down too much with Red-Hair’s crew. Not while she was still in such a precarious position.

Their captain hadn’t returned yet, but just as the thought found her, she pushed it away.

She didn’t know why she was constantly reaching for him, if it was to keep him within her sights or for some other reason she didn’t want to look at too closely. It was, like everything about him and his crew, frustrating.

Outside, the sea still rocked the ship, but the pirates gathered in the galley remained steady in their seats, their grips around their bowls and glasses unwavering. Following Yasopp’s lead, more had dared to take a seat closer to her, and Makino listened as they talked, comparing the storm with the worst in their memories, and how they’d handled them, which left them howling with laughter, until she could barely hear the sea over the din.

It felt like Aster’s, the thought found her then, but unlike out on deck, she didn't have to force the reminder. Instead, it came of its own accord, prompted by the crew around her. Their liveliness, and their loud voices, unhindered by the rough weather and the godforsaken hour. It reminded her of _home_ ; of late evenings with the tavern filled, and her daughter sleeping behind the bar while she worked, listening to the stories, and the songs where they sang them, to each other, to the sea and the night and for nothing but the joy of singing.

The thought kept finding her between breaths, wondering where Rowan was. She didn’t know the sea, knew only the warm shallows of their island. She’d never endured a storm in her life, let alone while on a ship.

Her chest ached, thinking about her little girl, and suddenly the warm galley no longer offered comfort. She’d finished her meal, but couldn’t stomach the thought of a refill.

“You’re worried about her,” Yasopp said then, making her look up, and found his expression softening, no doubt at the look on her face.

For a moment, Makino was afraid he was going to ask about her, or worse, offer some kind of testimony on behalf of his captain, to assure her he’d find her, but it wasn’t what she got, as Yasopp said, “I know the feeling. I have a boy, myself.”

She blinked, and his smile widened. “He’s seventeen,” he explained, a little sheepish. “A bit too old for his dad to worry about him, but I can’t really help it. Don’t think that’ll ever change, to be honest.” His smile saddened a bit, as his gaze drifted. “I haven’t seen him in a long time.”

It was the look in his eyes that did it, the kindred feeling she recognised intimately, and whatever she felt about this crew and Yasopp as one of Red-Hair’s men, that he was a father who loved his son wasn’t something she spared even half a second of doubt.

“Where is he now?” Makino asked him quietly.

He seemed pleased by her show of interest. “Back home with my wife in East Blue,” he said, his grin so full of pride it almost hurt to look at. “Usopp’s his name.”

There was a lot left unsaid by that statement, but Makino found it in his eyes, and didn’t need to ask how many years it had been. Any amount felt unimaginable, not knowing where her own child was, and if she was safe, and unharmed.

Unbidden, the thought of Red-Hair found her again, and the way he’d looked at her in his cabin the day before, when he’d asked about her.

Ten years…

“Rowan, huh?” Yasopp asked then, dragging her eyes back from the door to the hold, only to find him smiling, although for a different reason now. “Got the hair, then?”

The way he said it made her pause—not as though he was asking out of curiosity, but like he’d already known, although how that was possible, she had no idea. She’d been pregnant when she’d been taken, and even with the possibility that her daughter's hair would be red, there was no way he could have _known_.

He must have gathered from her frown that he’d overstepped some kind of boundary, and with a chagrined quirk of the lips, Yasopp excused himself to get another drink.

Watching him go, Makino couldn't tell if she was relieved, or if she wanted the company now that she’d had a taste of it. Because it was hard, holding them all at arm’s length, and always keeping her guard up around them. It was _exhausting_ , feeling alone, but she didn’t know if that was reason enough to trust them; if she would come to regret it later if she did.

But oh, they made it difficult. Between their laughter and their good humour, they made it so difficult not to trust them. To not _want_ to.

“Makino,” said a voice then, and she looked up to find Red-Hair’s first mate watching her where he’d approached the stove. He was the one who’d spoken that day, who’d asked her if she knew who he was. She knew now why he’d done it, and that he must have been the one to deduce why she hadn’t recognised them.

 _Shrewd_ , she thought, taking in the careful arrangement of his features, and the eyes that saw more than his expression revealed. The rain had turned his hair pewter, and had dragged loose some strands to fall around his face, brushing the scar on his temple. He wasn’t smoking now.

“Ben, right?” she asked.

The corner of his mouth jutted up a fraction, although she couldn’t guess what he thought about the fact that she’d learned his name. “Not hiding today?” he asked instead.

It was painfully blunt, and she hoped the lingering cold in her cheeks hid the fierce blush that gripped her at the remark, and the revelation that her strategic evasion the day before hadn’t convinced anyone of being anything than what it was.

But lifting her chin, she didn’t deny it, or excuse her behaviour, only met his gaze calmly, and she saw the corner of his mouth lifting further, as though pleased by the silent challenge.

“We take some time getting used to,” he continued then, when she hadn’t said a word, before he added, this time with a gleam in his eyes, “This isn’t the first time we’ve given you trouble.”

The casual mention took her breath, but Ben’s expression didn’t change, although Makino wondered what he found in hers.

She wondered if he was trying to coax her into asking about her past, or if he was just gauging whether or not she’d be receptive to the information, although in that moment, Makino couldn’t have told him if she was even if he’d asked her outright.

There was so much she wanted to know, and to ask, but like the rest of his crew, she didn’t know if she could trust him to tell her. His loyalty was to Red-Hair, and she didn’t know what that meant for her, if what he would tell her was the truth, or something else entirely that would be more in his captain’s favour.

She didn’t know if the truth itself would be, and if that was the case, if she even wanted to know.

Something passed through his eyes then, and she thought he must have read her thoughts off her face, although she still couldn’t tell what he made of it, or her.

“Check his captain’s logs,” he said then, and she blinked, startled.

“What?”

It wasn’t quite a smile, the thing that shaped his mouth now, as he explained, “If you want the unvarnished story of what he’s been doing for ten years, you’ll find it there. It might fill in some of the blanks.”

His eyes glittered, before he quipped, as he turned to leave, “And you can organise them while you’re at it.”

He left her sitting by the stove, moving between the benches to one of the other tables, and Makino could only watch him leave, his parting words ringing in her head.

Laughter rose up in his wake, filling the vacuum he’d left, but she barely heard it, busy pondering what he'd told her, and what to make of it.

Red-Hair wouldn’t have fabricated his own captain’s logs, although she had to pause at Ben’s reasoning for offering her that option, instead of just telling her himself. He’d gathered why she was wary, and she might have appreciated the courtesy, like the offering itself, if it hadn't terrified her so much.

Before all of this, she would have jumped at the chance to know the truth about who she’d been—to know that she’d been missed, and that there’d been someone looking for her. But having observed Red-Hair since coming aboard, the hurt in his eyes, which scared her more than it intrigued her, knowing now that she’d been the cause but unable to recollect even the vaguest memory of him, or to know if she even wanted to remember…

She didn’t know if she wanted the truth.

 

—

 

Returning to the galley, he found her still sitting by the stove, at a careful distance from the rest of his crew, although the fact that she’d lingered was significant, Shanks felt, at least given how reticent she’d been the day before.

But then the storm had given her a purpose rather than just staying aboard as a passenger, and she’d always been more comfortable while she worked, quicker to let her shoulders down if she could keep her hands busy. She’d never liked being at the centre of a crowd, but still loved being surrounded by people; an odd paradox, maybe, at least for someone who didn’t know her.

And maybe he didn’t know the woman she was now, but he recognised the parts of her that hadn’t changed, and was glad to see that this was one thing that had stayed the same, observing her watching his crew, and knowing she was absorbing everything she heard, names and stories and details. She'd loved that, learning things about people.

Her long hair was unbound and drying, wild and lovely where it spilled around her slender shoulders, and for a moment he couldn’t take his eyes off it, thick with saltwater and dark as sea glass. It had been short when he’d left her, the tips barely brushing her jaw, and the intricate braid she'd worn it in yesterday had done nothing to suggest the sheer length of it where it hung down her back now, heavy and beautiful in a way that looked almost otherworldly, to the point where Shanks half-expected to find sea shells in it.

Watching her, he couldn’t help the image of her out on deck, the thin dress clinging to her lithe curves, her small breasts visible through the sheer fabric, like when she’d been nineteen, standing on the shore in nothing but her nightdress, somehow both shy and bold, and her feet bare; a wild sea-sprite spurred into being by the breeze.

He remembered suddenly how it had felt, holding her when that wave had crashed over the deck. He hadn't stopped to think before he'd acted, and had barely been able to stay on his feet, unprepared for the sensation, her soft little body against his.

He might have felt some shame at his own body’s unapologetic response, which was the reason he’d excused himself so quickly, lest she'd notice his painfully obvious erection, and subtlety had truly never been his strong suit. But in his own defence, it had been ten years, and there’d been no one else since her, although he didn’t know what to do with himself now, or the fact that she could still reduce him to this state, even after so long.

She was still wearing his cloak, and Shanks didn’t know what hurt more—the reminder it brought of a time where she'd looked at him with different eyes, or the flicker of painful hope that found him at the acceptance, observing her where she sat, her small body wrapped in it. He didn’t want to read too much into it, and yet couldn’t help himself, but then nothing had changed in that regard, either.

He caught Ben’s approach as he crossed the galley, and masking his immediate suspicion with a smile, “Why are you wearing that face?” Shanks asked him, before Ben could even open his mouth.

“This is the face I always wear,” Ben said mildly.

“Exactly,” Shanks said. He didn’t look in Makino’s direction as he asked him, his voice pitched too low for her to hear, “What did you do?”

Ben just smiled, which in itself was worrying. “Sometimes she needs a nudge,” he said simply, before walking past him to get another helping of breakfast, leaving Shanks with the uncanny feeling that often followed one of Ben’s strategies, where his first mate was always three steps ahead of everyone else. The fact that they usually turned out in their favour would have felt more assuring, if it didn’t also feel like he was fumbling around with his eyes closed.

But Ben had never once steered him wrong, and with that in mind, Shanks turned to Makino, and found her eyes fixed on him warily from across the crowded galley.

He held it, and had to keep himself from smiling now, sensing the challenge in her presence, which was, cheerfully in spite of what she might hope, the exact opposite of discouraging.

Yesterday, he might have held himself back from approaching her, not wanting to give her any more reasons to be wary of him. But he’d made his choice about how he wanted to play this, and it didn’t require sitting on his ass and hoping she’d remember. And it wasn’t how he’d imagined finding her, but he had _found_ her, and he wasn’t going to fuck this up now that he had. Shyarly had seen his future, had seen Makino and their daughter in it, and if that vision still held true, then he was going to do his part in making it come about. He wasn’t leaving this up to fate, if fate had even had a hand in how things had turned out.

Shanks didn’t care if it had, or if this had been their story from the start. And he couldn’t rewrite what had happened, but he could do something to change the outcome from here.

And maybe his plan to make her fall for him was cause for reasonable doubt, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t expecting it to be easy, but it wouldn’t stop him, because even changed, Shanks knew that heart; knew what made it jump, and flutter, and the things it had loved.

And it had loved him. _That_ was reason enough to try again, despite the odds stacked against him, and the ten years that divided them. And even if he had changed, too, like with Makino, there were some things that had stayed the same.

Like the fact that he always rose to the challenge.

 

—

 

She wasn’t surprised when Red-Hair finally made to approach her.

She’d been anticipating it, and had known her choice to remain in the galley might be taken as an invitation. And yesterday, it would have made her think twice about staying, but she’d had time to think, that long day of keeping her distance from him; had had time to come to terms with everything that had happened, at least enough to look further than her present situation.

She didn’t know how long it would take them to find Rowan, but with the possibility of several weeks aboard his ship, she couldn’t spend them all avoiding him. And even if she hadn’t yet decided what to make of him, or his motives, it would be to her own benefit to at least attempt a companionable relationship. He _was_ Rowan’s father, and at least insofar as their daughter was concerned, he seemed genuinely invested in her wellbeing. And from the multitude of possible alternatives concerning Rowan’s origin, he was, objectively, better than most she'd imagined.

Of course, she was still coming to terms with the Emperor part. And the fact that she still had no knowledge of the events that had led to their daughter’s conception.

Makino watched Red-Hair walking through the galley towards her. He’d changed into a dry shirt and pants, the latter with a cheerful print that drew her gaze, before it jumped upwards, realising with a mortified blush just where she’d been looking, although the alternative wasn’t much better, the taut muscles and the dark hair sweeping down his chest, before disappearing like a cheeky invitation beneath the half-open front of his shirt.

His hair was still drying, pulled away from his brow, the dripping ends clinging to his jaw and the black stubble darkening his cheeks, and there was an ease about him that invited the memory of watching him on deck, his feet no less steady on the planks within the dry warmth of the galley than at the centre of a storm. He was comfortable here, and could conquer a room with nothing more than his presence, and it didn’t leave any confusion about the rumours that followed him around, or the reputation he’d built.

She tried very hard not to be impressed, but couldn’t squash the feeling fast enough.

If he’d caught any part of her momentary distraction, Red-Hair didn’t show it, his gaze holding hers without wavering. Picking up a bottle from a table as he passed, he nodded to her empty glass where she was thumbing it nervously. “Refill?”

Makino considered the offer, and the wisdom of drinking with him—weighed it against the chill that was slowly thawing from her skin, and the smoky warmth of the drink already in her belly.

Silently, she held out her glass, and watched as he uncorked the bottle and refilled her drink, with surprising ease, given that every action was done with one hand. Her eyes lingered on it, bigger than both of hers combined, with veins across the back, and rough callouses along the insides of his fingers, strong and sure in even the smallest of actions. He must have lived with his amputation a while, she thought.

Curious in spite of herself, her gaze flicked to his left side, observing the tied-up shirtsleeve. She wondered how he’d lost his arm. A battle?

She held back her shudder at the thought, imagining someone strong enough to inflict such a wound on a pirate as powerful as Red-Hair. She hadn’t even seen him fight, but she’d _felt_ him, that day with Hancock; the deadly precision, and that overwhelming will, which still left her short of breath, remembering. Who could possibly withstand that?

She wondered if it was the same person who’d given him those scars.

She noticed he didn’t pour a drink for himself, but didn’t remark on it as he put the cork back in the bottle and took a seat on the bench, opposite the table closest to where she was sitting, on a chair pulled up beside the stove. She recognised the quiet demonstration of not getting too close, and even seeking her out, he was careful not to overstep the boundaries she’d set.

It was a conscious effort not to let her shoulders relax, and to let herself be convinced by the air he had about him, that undeniable nobility that inspired trust, and made her think, without the resistance she’d hoped, that she could trust him, if she wanted to.

Stubborn, Makino fought against it.

From the look of him, Red-Hair was aware of her struggles, but his expression didn’t let slip what he thought about it, not irritation, or even the hurt she’d come to expect. If anything, she thought he looked amused.

Makino frowned, observing the casual grace with which he’d claimed a seat, his long legs draped astride the bench, perfectly at ease.

Something had changed about him from the day before. She couldn’t put her finger on what it was, but something was different, a shift in his presence around her, which was a far cry from how he’d been when he’d first brought her aboard, when he’d barely been able to look at her, and the pain in his eyes had almost been too much for her to endure.

There was a new calm about him now, something that wanted to answer to determination, although she couldn’t for the life of her guess the reason; a resolute stillness in his being that showed in how he held himself, the straightness of his back and the cunning quality of his grey eyes.

She had no idea what had prompted the sudden change, or what it even meant, but didn’t want to prod at that thought too much, when his presence already caused her so much confusion.

“The deal you made with Boa Hancock,” Red-Hair began then, and she blinked, surprised by the topic, out of all the things he could have chosen to bring up.

He didn’t say anything else, just let the words hang in the air between them, suggestive, and she heard what went unspoken well enough.

“I have to defeat her,” Makino said, and couldn’t help the stab of hurt at the reminder, although it was never far from her mind. “If I want to return to my tribe, there’s no other way.”

The implication wasn’t subtle—that she intended to do just that, regardless of what he or anyone else had to say about it. She would go back, and she would win. She'd told Hancock as much, and wouldn’t waver in her conviction any more against this opponent.

She thought he would protest—to say that she couldn’t return, or that he wouldn’t let her go now that he’d found her, but he didn’t.

“You would have won that fight,” Red-Hair said instead, catching her off guard. “If it hadn’t been for her conqueror’s haki.”

She tried to shove down the swell of pride within her, but couldn’t, and wasn’t quick enough to stop her face from showing it, although Makino doubted she would have succeeded even if she had been.

And she might have accused him of lying to get into her good graces, to spin sweet untruths and offer false compliments just to get her to drop her guard, but there was no deception to be found when he spoke, just bare-faced honesty, and a quiet pride that sat deep in his eyes.

She didn’t know what to do with that, or the reaction it evoked in her, but then praise from one of the greatest swordsmen in the world would make anyone sit a little straighter. Makino didn’t think it would have been any different had it come from any of the other Emperors.

Or so she told herself, anyway.

“I’ll help you, if you want,” Red-Hair said then.

Her eyes flew up in surprise.

“If you’re going to beat her, you’ll need practice withstanding conqueror’s haki in battle,” he continued. His eyes held hers, that sharp steel unsheathed. The lamplight brought out the sprigs of green in them, bright against his hair, a darker red now, still damp from the rain.

His smile crooked a bit, tugging at the thin, silver-white scar bisecting his upper lip, cutting through his dark stubble, and her gaze shot towards his mouth, before she had to remind herself to drag it back up to his eyes. But if he noticed, Red-Hair didn’t let on.

“I’ll teach you,” he told her.

She couldn’t hide her surprise, or even school her expression into something that wasn’t full-out gawking, her mouth agape where she watched him, although Red-Hair only met her shock with that same calm, as though waiting for her response—as though he hadn’t just made her a monumental offer, on top of the one he was already seeing through, in helping her look for Rowan.

She didn’t know how to react, or what to even say, not just to the fact that he was apparently on board with her decision to win back her place among her tribe, but that he would help her achieve it. Did he even know what it would mean for him?

He had to know. Hancock had made it clear enough that she didn’t tolerate his presence in her vicinity, let alone on Amazon Lily, and their laws regarding men weren’t exactly ambiguous. He had to know what her going back would mean for him, and for Rowan.

She couldn’t think of a single ulterior motive that would warrant that kind of offer, at least not one that would be worth making it. Even if he was just doing it to win her trust, why offer something that would ultimately be disadvantageous to him?

Her mind scrambled, searching for a catch, but she found none.

And he was right. If she wanted to defeat Hancock, she needed to learn how to withstand conqueror’s haki when used against her. With Hancock being the only active user on Amazon Lily, and not one for participating in battle ring matches, there’d been no opportunity for her to train for it, and before yesterday, Makino had only ever faced Hancock's armament and observation. She'd never _fought_ her, and hadn't been prepared for what that would entail.

But if she could train with Red-Hair…

She thought of the fight, when he’d almost interfered, and she had to wonder then what would have happened if he had. Remembering his haki, she thought even Hancock would have failed to withstand it, but then Red-Hair was recognised as one of the strongest pirates in the world for a reason, if not the strongest. His bounty certainly suggested it, the highest of all the Emperors. As far as opportunities went, only an idiot would turn it down.

She realised belatedly that she’d failed to respond, at least with more than just a gaping mouth, but looking at him, Makino couldn’t summon her voice to accept the offer.

She still couldn’t name the new look in his eyes, that strange determination that made her both want to look at him and to look anywhere else but his face, captivated despite her better sense and distracted every time his smile crooked gently—yes, like _that,_ and if she could barely endure sitting together with him in the galley with a table between them, how was she supposed to _spar_ with him?

She didn’t know if she was flustered or annoyed at the image _that_ prompted, or why it was even an issue. She sparred all the time with the other Kuja, it shouldn’t have to be different just because he was a man, albeit a distressingly handsome one and infuriatingly aware of the fact, and would it kill him to button that shirt?

Of course, there was also their shared history and unresolved issues to complicate matters, and topped with a form of training that was, in essence, about withstanding the compulsion to _submit_ to him, the suggestive image alone was enough to make her want to stifle a scream with her palms.

She remembered the effortless command with which he’d wielded his haki, the memory accompanied by an entirely unhelpful and inexplicable desire to experience it again, which trickled down past her stomach to settle with a mortifying tingle between her legs. And she had no idea if that was the inherent nature of conqueror’s haki, or if that was just Red-Hair.

Shifting in her seat, Makino didn’t rightly know which option she preferred.

And of course it was a good fit. If there was one thing she’d learned, it was that Red-Hair was terrifyingly compelling. He hadn’t even said anything else, had just left the offer open-ended where someone else would have piled on at least one attempt at smooth talking her into agreeing. But he didn’t need to speak to be convincing, and from the gleam in his eyes where he watched her, he knew it.

She was intimately familiar with that look, like the brightly compelling smile that usually accompanied it, and even if Red-Hair’s expression was carefully subdued now, it was no less calculated than the one belonging to the cheeky little girl who'd come from him, and who’d used the same potent charm to get herself out of trouble more times than Makino could count.

The reminder found her unsurprised, but then she could barely glance at him without immediately thinking about her.

“Rowan,” Makino said, without thinking. “She has it. Conqueror’s haki.”

She saw his surprise where it wiped off his considering look, and heard it echoed by the crew around her as they all turned their heads towards where she was seated, effectively surrendering any and all attempts at convincing her they weren’t listening. And she saw the second delight overtook it, shaping his grin as wide as it would go, no pretence behind it, or even an attempt to control his reaction.

And there was the _smile_ , the one that took no prisoners, and that she’d spent her whole remembered life loving, without knowing who it had come from.

“Really?” Red-Hair asked, sounding short of breath. He’d leaned forward in his seat, and at any other time, Makino might have taken pleasure in catching him so off guard, if it hadn’t been for how earnest his reaction was.

She nodded, and tried not to regret telling him, but then what could he do with the information? “It’s only been the one time.”

“She’s young,” Red-Hair said, and the naked pride in his voice nearly undid her. “It’ll come once she starts training. Does she—” He paused, and she realised why when he asked, “Does she have someone to teach her?”

She heard what he didn’t say, but then how could she miss it, with his earlier proposal still hanging between them?

The others were all watching her now, unashamedly interested, but Makino bore the attention with quiet dignity.

“Not yet,” she said simply, and left it at that. She’d thought about asking Hancock, as Sorrel had suggested, but she didn’t know where they stood now. And there was still the matter of her exile.

She wondered if Red-Hair would offer to teach her, too, but he didn’t, and Makino couldn't name the feeling that found her; couldn't say if it was disappointment or relief, or somehow both.

He was still wearing that smile, so earnestly delighted by that tiny piece of information, Makino didn’t need her observation skills to know that he wasn’t faking it.

She felt a pang of guilt then, for withholding information about her, still afraid of what it would mean for him to know her, her brave girl, who’d always wanted to know her father.

Maybe she could give him a little. Not everything, not all of her, the most precious thing in her life, but she could give him something, after the ten years he’d spent looking for her.

“She’s—”

Tongue-tied, she stopped, uncertain of how to even begin describing her, the wild, beautiful girl she’d carried within her, who’d been the softest, happiest baby, and who was growing up faster than Makino could keep up with her.

Red-Hair was looking at her expectantly, almost painfully hopeful, and with a hunger that hurt her, because she recognised it so fiercely, having spent ten years craving a knowledge she didn’t have.

“She likes ships,” Makino blurted, and didn’t know why that was the first thing that came to mind, when she could have said so many other things that were more significant, but from the smile that lit up Red-Hair’s whole face, she wondered if she’d chosen right.

“Ships?”

He sounded achingly happy, and Makino swallowed the knot that had formed in her throat. But then thinking about him, the captain of this crew and an Emperor of this sea, maybe the small comparison was what he wanted more than anything; the assurance that there was a part of him in her, that she was his, even if Makino still shied away from that truth. But she was trying. For her daughter, she would _try_.

“She must get that from you,” she said, before she could stop herself. “I’ve never cared for sailing.”

That implication wasn’t subtle, either; the fact that she craved to know what he knew, about who she’d been before she’d lost her memories, and if the things she knew about herself now were the same as they had been, or wholly different. Had she liked sailing before, or even the sea? How much had she changed from the person she'd been?

Silence lengthened between them, making her hands twitch where she'd tucked them within his cloak. And she didn’t know why she’d expected him to speak. Maybe because she’d been bracing herself for it, that he’d pry, and ask more questions about Rowan now that she’d opened up a bit, demanding she tell him more about her, and her life on Amazon Lily, but he didn’t.

And then there was the life she’d lived before, that he obviously knew about, but Red-Hair hadn’t volunteered to tell her about who she’d been. All he’d done was answer the questions she’d asked him, of what had happened to her, and why she’d ended up on that slaver, but beyond that, Makino knew nothing.

And like she’d expected him to ask her about Rowan, she’d expected him to be eager to tell her about herself, and to give her the information she’d wanted for so long. Perhaps he might even have held it over her head, as a means to control her; to make her tell him about Rowan in exchange for the information, or whatever else he wanted as payment. But he hadn’t, and she didn’t know why.

Suddenly frustrated, she didn’t know what gave her the courage. Or maybe it wasn’t courage but something more reckless, the whiskey warming her stomach and the eddies of the storm outside still swirling within her, as she asked him boldly, “Who was I?”

And she wasn’t asking about them now, or who she’d been to him. He’d already told her that. She was asking about herself, the person she’d been, before she’d forgotten.

If he was surprised by her asking him, Red-Hair’s expression didn’t reveal it, and Makino fought back against the urge to squirm under the steady gaze holding hers from across the table.

It was a difficult question to ask of someone else, not only because she had no way of verifying what he told her, but because it felt like giving him power over her. Knowing nothing had been safer than having someone dictate her narrative, to tell her who she had been, and by extension, who she was now. It took everything she had just to ask him, and even now, she wondered if she wouldn’t be better off not knowing.

His crew were all watching, and not even trying to be subtle about it. Makino felt their intrigue, and their gazes where they shifted between them, as though they couldn't decide if they wanted to watch her, or Red-Hair.

“You were a girl,” Red-Hair said then, and she might have scoffed at the painfully vague description if not for the inexplicable tenderness in his voice when he added quietly, “in a port.”

It meant something, that phrase, but she couldn’t guess what, and didn’t know why she felt so frustrated that he wasn’t being more upfront.

Before she could talk herself out of pushing it, she tried a different approach. And the question came to her faster than she could offer it due consideration, but then she had always wondered. “How old am I?”

A startled smile pulled at his mouth, highlighting that distracting lip-scar again, but he didn’t hesitate this time as he told her, “Thirty this year. Your birthday is February 23.”

Makino didn’t nod, just absorbed the information. They’d estimated right when they’d guessed how old she’d been, that first day aboard the slaver, although it didn’t make her feel any different, knowing the truth.

Her brows knitted as she regarded Red-Hair, taking in the generous laugh-lines creasing the corners of his eyes, and his handsome features, no youthful pudge in sight. He looked older than thirty.

“And how old are you?” she asked, and couldn't help the note of suspicion in her voice any more than she could help her frown.

Something like chagrin passed over his face, before he admitted, “Thirty-eight, recently. Our birthdays aren’t that far apart.”

Her frown deepened, as she did the math. She’d been twenty when she’d been taken, and had no idea how long they’d been involved before that, but whichever way you looked at it, he’d been much older than her.

“Yeah,” Red-Hair breathed, with a touch of self-deprecation, as though he’d known what she'd been thinking. “You were nineteen when we met. Make what you will of that.”

It was teasingly offered, with a wry tilt of his mouth, and the age difference might have made her pause, if it hadn't been for the conversation they’d already had, and her suggestion that Rowan's conception hadn’t been consensual. If nothing else, his reaction to that had assured her it had been.

Still. She’d been young, much younger than him, who'd been eight years older, and the story said nothing of whether or not he’d taken advantage of that. Some men did, from what her sisters had told her.

“How did we meet?” she asked, curious in earnest now that she’d been given enough pieces to start putting together a tentative picture. A girl in a port and an older pirate captain. It sounded like the premise of one of her favourite romances.

A glance at Red-Hair where he sat, the front of his shirt half-buttoned and that face flaunted like anyone had the right to walk around looking like that, she found the comparison a little too fitting. If it had been a romance novel, Red-Hair looked like he’d walked right off the cover.

“You owned a bar,” he said then, and Makino blinked, observing his smile where it warmed, his gaze drifting a bit, as though remembering. “In this tiny seaside village in East Blue. Known for its windmills, and melons. Not much else, though.” He met her eyes, as he said, almost tenderly, “But it’s worth the visit.”

East Blue. She glanced to where Yasopp was seated, observing them with an inscrutable smile. And she was greedily hoarding every new piece of information now. A barmaid from East Blue, and—wait, she’d _owned_ a bar?

“Party’s,” Red-Hair said, and it took her a second to realise it was the name. “It was your mother’s.”

Her breath caught on a soft sound. “My mother?”

She was forgetting herself, and to be as wary as she knew she should be, suspicious of the validity of what he was telling her, but she couldn’t help it. She’d always wondered if she had a family somewhere; if there was anyone who missed her, a mother and a father, or siblings.

Red-Hair nodded, but she saw then how his eyes hooded, as though with regret, and she understood why when he said, quietly, “Emiko. She’d just passed when we met, so I never had the chance to meet her. But from your descriptions, she was something of a force.”

Her heart sank, and disappointment was quick to fill the void within her, when he could offer nothing but a name. What had she looked like? Had she been like her, or as unlike her as her own daughter was? What about her father?

Before she could decide what she wanted to ask, if she even wanted to ask, Red-Hair continued, “Your first day running the bar on your own was the day we happened to stop by. You weren’t particularly amused by this. Or me. Told me to order my drink or get out of your doorway. As far as first meeting so, I’ve had better.” His smile softened, the laugh-lines at the corners of his eyes deepening as he added, “None as memorable, though.”

Someone chimed in from across the galley, “It wasn’t your fault, Makino!”

“Yeah!” someone else agreed. “Boss had it coming!”

“Then again, he usually does!”

Then there were more of them joining in, to offer their version of events, and she could barely keep up with them, and the new pieces of her puzzle as they offered them freely, almost too many to make sense of, but coming together in a picture of a beautiful little port and a bar with a view of the sea, and a warm afternoon that had turned into one evening that had turned into repeated visits. And the girl who ran it, who'd been just as beautiful, and kind, and who'd welcomed them back every time.

"You always remembered my poison of preference," Yasopp said, to which someone else responded with, "Mine, too!", "And mine!", until they were all chiming in with similar responses.

Ben only met her gaze, and nodded to the galley. "You put up with this," was all he said, although it was accompanied by a smile this time, crooked around his cigarette.

"You cooked," the big one—Lucky Roo, she remembered—sighed, which earned him a sidelong glance from their own chef, although Marsh didn't protest the blatant show of favouritism, only smiled in silent agreement.

Red-Hair observed her as they spoke, his expression unreadable now, although the intensity in his look left her fighting to catch her breath whenever her gaze fleeted back to his.

“You were the neatest proprietor I’d ever met,” he said then, a new smile flitting over his mouth, but whatever thought had followed that admission, he didn’t share it. “That fact still remains.”

He was very carefully avoiding making claims, Makino realised. He wasn’t forcing an image of her. Instead, they were careful observations, and his own impression of her.

Then, “I’ve never met anyone like you,” Red-Hair said, and her heart stuttered at the admission, which felt like it shouldn’t be offered so casually, but then he made it sound so easy.

The urge seized her, to ask him the thing she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since learning who he was. One time was all it took to conceive a child, but if that was all it had been between them, a single tryst with an unexpected consequence, she doubted he would have spent so many years looking for her. But it seemed an odd match; a pirate like him, and a girl in a port.

 _Everything_ , he said, when she’d asked him what she’d been to him, but that only told his part of the story, not hers. It said nothing about what that girl might have felt for him, if it was even a shred of the same feeling she found in his eyes when he looked at her, that thing she didn’t know if he just couldn’t hide from her, or if he had stopped trying.

And like his captain’s logs, she didn’t know if she wanted to know that truth. If she could bear it yet, or ever, hearing her story, about the barmaid in the port who'd meant everything to him. Whoever she’d been, she wasn’t that girl anymore, and Makino didn’t know if she wanted to remember her, or to know what she’d felt about the man seated across from her now. The father of her child, and who had so clearly been more than just a one-time fuck.

But the whiskey in her belly made her bold, made her forget to be careful, like the heady warmth of the galley and his presence where it had wrapped around her like his cloak. It made her want to know if it had always been like this, and if she had liked it, once. If she had been one of them, and if he had been hers, like he’d called her his.

She drew a soft breath for courage. “How did we—”

She felt the presence physically, and had shot to her feet within breaths, so fast she sent her empty glass toppling off the table to shatter on the planks, but Red-Hair’s confusion had lasted less than a second, as his gaze turned towards the entrance of the galley, just as the door opened.

Makino had put her back to the stove, panic having washed away the momentary comfort that had grown out of the morning’s events, leaving her hands shaking, but no bow to grip in her fist, and not even a kitchen knife within reach. And in nothing but her thin underdress and Red-Hair's cloak, she felt exposed, observing the tall figure stepping in from outside, dragging the black sea with him, and the howling wind, like the ethereal cape of some dark, otherworldly lord, as Dracule Mihawk stopped just beyond the entrance to the galley, the door swinging shut behind him.

Keen yellow eyes took in Makino where she stood, then Red-Hair, who’d risen to his feet, putting himself subtly between them, before they shifted calmly back to hers, and he said, in that dry, musing tone,

“It appears I have been beaten to the punch.”

 

—

 

The warm spray felt good against his face, the sea filling his nose as they shot forward across the water, Striker parting the surface like a hot knife through butter, and the roar of the wind and the water carrying her laughter forward, louder than anything he’d ever heard.

“Go faster!”

Inclining his head to her where she clung to his back, Ace grinned, and obliged.

He’d given her his hat, and her hair whipped about her face beneath the wide brim, a wild rowan red, and the eyes that seized his were so dark they looked black, bright like the grin that split her whole face.

He was glad to see it. Something had been on her mind that morning, but whatever it had been, the thoughts had lifted when he’d showed her Luffy’s wanted poster, as though the physical evidence of his little brother’s existence had helped root her remaining uncertainty of whether or not to trust him.

She’d asked more about him as they'd prepared to leave—had wanted to know where he was, and what he was doing, and Ace had shared the little he’d gleaned, about the skirmishes in East Blue now attached to his brother’s name, although how long his wanted poster had been in circulation, he didn’t know. He’d been out of the loop for a while, looking for Teach, but it couldn’t be very old. A week or two, maybe.

His grin widened, thinking about the price on his brother’s head, cheerfully ridiculous for a starting bounty, especially in East Blue, and felt the pride that warmed his chest at the thought. He wanted to see him again, and felt as eager as Rowan to know where he was now, and what he was doing.

He heard her laughing, a seemingly ceaseless sound, and felt his smile softening. He’d been travelling alone for a while now, and it was nice, having company again.

And it reminded him of home—of piggybacking Luffy through the river as they looked for fish, carrying him back to Dadan’s when he fell asleep, and of answering the hundred questions he'd had ready, which he'd always taken for granted that Ace would know. Like his little brother, Rowan wanted to know everything, and barely had time to pause for breath between questions, asking about the islands he’d visited, in Paradise and the New World, and wanting to hear about Dawn Island, and Dadan, and his crew.

And when she wasn’t asking questions she was _talking_ , telling him about her home, how she’d hunt in the forest with her mother and train with the other girls, and how she'd spend her evenings in the tavern where Makino worked. She told him about her aunts and her sisters, and the Pirate Empress, and he didn’t need to see her face to know that she was homesick, finding it in her voice, despite the show of bravery she put up.

Now she seemed too busy laughing to be homesick, or even to speak, enraptured by the sea and the open sky, although Ace couldn’t blame her. His particular method of travelling offered an experience of the sea that you couldn’t get on any other sailing vessel, the speed and nearness to the water both thrilling and dangerous, and she loved it, and loved it _loudly_ , her voice lifted with her laughter as she flung her arms out, his hat dipping into her brow.

They hadn’t encountered a single sea king yet, which Ace found a little strange. He couldn’t exactly line his raft with sea stone, and so they usually emerged to investigate, although at the speed he was going, he could easily skirt around them. But there’d been nothing, not even a shadow passing beneath them.

He decided not to question their spell of good luck. Even adept at avoiding them, and having his haki to resort to if he couldn’t, with Rowan’s precarious position on his back, it was better she wasn’t spooked. Ace doubted she’d had many dealings with sea kings at close quarters.

Her laughter dwindled down as they continued across the water, soft and winded as she grew tired, lulled by the motion and the sea air, and Ace thought she’d be nodding off soon.

The darkening sea stretched out on all sides as the sun plunged below the horizon, but he’d estimated enough time to reach their destination, observing the island as it appeared in the distance, and the lights of the harbour through the dark. A lighthouse perched on the lip of the shore, guiding the way as the sky turned as black as the sea and heavy with stars, and by the time they drew into port, it was fully dark.

Stepping ashore, Ace eased Rowan down on the docks, allowing her to stretch her legs as he made to shore Striker, making sure it was secured before reaching to hoist his satchel back over his shoulder. He didn’t worry about anyone stealing it—it couldn’t be operated like a normal raft anyway, and caused more confusion than intrigue for potential scavengers.

Turning towards her, it was to find her eyelids drooping, and he smiled. “Tired?”

She shook her head, pushing the brim of his hat up and out of her eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he mused. “I bet a warrior of your calibre doesn’t get tired. But I’m ready to fall asleep on my feet, so what do you say we find somewhere to crash for the night?”

She nodded heavily, and for all her bravado, didn’t protest when he kneeled down, just climbed onto his back and wrapped her arms around his neck, her tiny weight easy to bear. His hat slipped off her head as he straightened, but the strings kept it securely fastened around her neck, as he shifted his grip on her and walked from the harbour into the port town.

It didn’t take him long to locate what looked like a reasonably clean inn, a snug two-storey house a little ways from the wharf, appropriately named _The Barnacle_ , although he doubted the irony was intended, unless they specifically catered to freeloaders.

Slipping in through the back door, it only took waiting for the receptionist to go and relieve himself before he’d found two unoccupied rooms in his ledger, had registered two fake names and swiped the keys, and then made himself scarce.

He hoped the receptionist wouldn’t notice the late additions, or the missing keys, although the bottle of liquor stashed behind the desk suggested he had other things to occupy himself with on an otherwise slow night.

“Do you do this a lot?” Rowan whispered from over his shoulder as he ascended the staircase to the second floor.

Ace flashed her a grin. “Only when I feel like sleeping in a bed. Most of the time I just fall asleep outside.”

Reaching the second floor, he didn’t pause as he made for the room at the end of the corridor, pausing and bowing his head politely to one of the inn’s occupants as they passed. Rowan was nodding off when they entered, and he put her down on the mattress, removing his hat and pulling the covers across her. It didn’t have much more than a bed, not even an adjoining bathroom, but then they weren’t exactly paying for the added luxury.

But the bed looked comfortable enough, and he saw from the way she sank into it with a sigh that it must have been a while since she’d slept in one.

He wondered not for the first time where Makino thought she was.

“Ace?”

Her voice reached him as he made to leave, and turning back towards her, he found her looking up at him, her dark eyes unnervingly big, and heavy-lidded with approaching sleep.

Kneeling down by the bed, “What is it?” he asked.

A soft beat, and then a murmur, partially lost against the pillow, “I’m really glad I found you.”

His heart constricted, and his sigh gusted out as he reached to touch her hair, thick from the sea spray and sticking out in every direction. Her lashes were dark where they fanned her cheeks, and in her gentler features, her wide mouth parted and her expression no longer animated with that ever-present grin, he found a half-forgotten memory of a kind, sweet face, and the girl it had belonged to, with her gentle humour and sad smiles.

Observing Rowan sleeping, it was difficult wrapping his head around the fact that she was the baby he’d felt in Makino’s belly that time. It made him wonder what it would have been like, if she’d grown up with them instead; if none of this had happened, and she’d been raised in Fuschia. He wondered what Red-Hair would have done, and what his own life might look like, and whether it would be much different now than it was.

He had no answer to any of those things, but it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was that he kept her safe, now that he’d found her.

He glanced at the little snake where it peered back at him, having curled protectively around her ear, and he might have called it suspicion, the thing that narrowed its tiny yellow eyes, if he didn’t feel mildly ridiculous for thinking it. It was just a snake.

“What?” Ace asked, just for the heck of it, and could have sworn its eyes slitted further, but dispelled the notion. He was probably just tired.

Shaking his head, he pushed to his feet, closing the door quietly behind him before he made for the stairs again. The receptionist hadn’t returned, and he grabbed the chance as it presented itself, a furtive glance offered to the empty common area as he discreetly swiped the Den Den Mushi from the front desk, before making a beeline back to his own room on the ground floor, right beneath Rowan’s.

Shutting the door, he put the snail down on the mattress, before doing a quick survey of the room. And certain that he wasn’t being overheard, he punched in the number.

The Den Den Mushi stared back at him emptily, babbling away in that monotone trill, before a soft _click_ signalled someone on the other end picking up, and the snail’s mouth moved to shape the words, _“Yeah?”_

The voice filled the room, followed by the Den Den Mushi’s expression shifting into a familiar mien, and Ace grinned.

“Hey,” he greeted, and watched a smile where it shifted over the snail’s uncanny mouth. “Is the line safe?”

 _“As safe as you get,”_ Marco answered, which meant keep it short and as vague as possible. _“Where are you?”_

“Paradise.” Shifting on the bed, he got more comfortable. They’d been travelling all day, and using his powers uninterrupted over long stretches of water always left him feeling drained, but he allowed himself to relax now. “Forgot to send you that postcard I promised. I’ll try to remember one of these days.”

_“Oh? Anything interesting to write home about?”_

“Depends,” Ace said, and paused a beat, before he asked, “Remember that story I told you a while back, about that thing I was looking for?”

 _“Yeah,”_ Marco said, carefully. _“I remember. Why, did you find it?”_

Ace smiled, and knew that was probably answer enough, even as he said, “One out of two. That’s why I’m calling. I was wondering if you could help me with something.” Then he corrected, “Well, two things.”

 _“You’ll owe me two drinks, then,”_ Marco said, and Ace felt his grin softening. Shit, he missed his crew. _“But yeah. What do you need?”_

“I need you to find out where the Isle of Women is located.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Then over a laugh, _“Is that_ all _?”_

“I’m serious,” Ace said, and saw Marco’s surprise from the Den Den Mushi’s expression.

_“You want me to find you a legend? That’ll be one hell of a drink, yoi.”_

“It’s real. And I thought maybe oyaji might know."

From Marco’s silence, Ace thought he’d been right in figuring that it was his best shot. Few people knew the sea as well as their captain. “And the other thing,” he continued, before Marco could reply, and he heard him sighing over a chuckle.

_“After hearing the first one, I’m almost afraid of what’s coming.”_

“I told you about her father,” Ace said, careful to be as vague as possible. If the line was being monitored, he didn’t want anyone to know what he was planning. One of Whitebeard’s commanders seeking out another Emperor would throw Marineford into disarray. Not to mention, it would put Rowan in danger, if they ever caught wind of whose daughter she was. “Could you find out where he is?”

 _“That, at least, shouldn’t be hard,”_ Marco said. _“But he moves around a lot.”_

“Get me his number, then. I just need a way to contact him.”

_“How did you find him last time you tracked him down?”_

“Persistence, mostly,” Ace said, remembering. “And good winter boots.”

Marco fell silent, but his acceptance was implied, and Ace was glad. And he felt a measure of regret, not being able to talk more freely than in vague nods to past conversations. With everything that had happened and everything he still didn’t know, he could have used someone to talk it over with; someone he trusted implicitly, to share his joy at finding her, and his confusion.

 _“So which one did you find?”_ Marco asked then, as though he’d known what he was thinking.

Ace smiled. “The little one. By accident, if you’ll believe it.” Although he wondered sometimes how much was truly accidental, on this sea.

 _“And the other one?”_ A pause, and then, _“Wait, that’s not why you want to me to find_ —”

“Yep.”

Marco fell silent. Then with a sigh, _“Well, that would explain why no one’s found them before now.”_

“Yeah,” Ace agreed, running his fingers through his hair. “There’s still some stuff I don’t understand, but I’m figuring it out as I go.”

 _“You usually do,”_ Marco said. _“But wait, you’ve got_ _her with you now?”_

Lifting his eyes to the ceiling and the room above, Ace shook his head, even as Marco couldn’t see it. “She’s not here at the moment, but I got her to agree to come with me.”

_“Come with you to…?”_

“I told her I’d take her to the New World.”

There was another lengthy pause. Then Marco asked, carefully, as though he suspected what the answer would be, but still knew Ace well enough that he wouldn’t put the opposite past him, _“And are you?”_

“Of course not. But she thinks that’s where we’re going. I just need to keep her occupied a little while longer.”

He hadn’t decided yet what would be the best course of action, but knowing where Red-Hair was would be a start. And if Marco could get him the location of the Isle of Women, he had the option of trying to get in touch with Makino first.

There was also Luffy, who might be somewhere in Paradise by now. Ace could try to find him, to ask what he thought he should do, although he already had an idea of what his little brother would suggest.

And he wanted to show him Rowan. It might just be his best bet, at least while she thought he was taking her to Sabaody. If Luffy had reached the Grand Line, he shouldn’t be too hard to track down, if he asked the right questions to the right people. Someone like his little brother would leave a trail a mile wide.

The sound of a floorboard creaking in the hallway outside his room stirred the quiet, and he paused, suddenly alert, but there was nothing there, and he turned back to the Den Den Mushi, still wearing Marco’s considering expression.

 _“Well, I’ll get around to asking,”_ he said. _“The second one shouldn’t be too hard, but the first…”_

“Just let me know if you find anything. Coordinates, or even just a rumour.”

He had a thought then, that he could ask his grandfather if he knew. Boa Hancock was a Warlord, which meant she had dealings with the World Government, and Garp had a high rank in the navy, and knew the Fleet Admiral personally. He might know where to find that fabled island, which was lauded as every hot-blooded pirate’s dream.

Indecisive, Ace considered the alternative. He hadn’t spoken to Garp since before he’d set out to sea, and didn’t know how he’d react to any of it—his position in Whitebeard’s crew, and what he’d discovered about Makino.

There was also the part of him that still blamed his grandfather for not finding her. Ace hadn’t been on this sea long, hadn’t had as long as Garp to search for her, and if the navy had connections to the Kuja through Boa Hancock…

He recognised that it was an unreasonable blame, and one that belonged to the kid who hadn’t been able to do anything for her, who’d had to sit and wait, all the while feeling frustrated with the adults for being similarly helpless.

He felt the same frustration now, faced with so many decisions, and not enough information to confidently make even a single one. It was like he’d been given a puzzle with only half the pieces.

 _“Call back in a few days, and I’ll let you know if I’ve found anything,”_ Marco said then, as Ace pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the approaching headache. God, he was tired. _“What will you do in the meantime?”_

Despite his current line of thought, a smile pulled at his mouth. “Keep her out of trouble.” The one promise he’d made to Makino that he could keep; that he would protect her child.

_“You saying that makes me worry for this kid.”_

Grinning, Ace flipped him off, and was mildly disappointed the Den Den Mushi couldn’t convey that.

 _“What about the other thing you were doing?”_ Marco asked then.

He didn’t need to clarify what he meant, and Ace felt as his jaw tensed, but then just the reminder of Teach made his hands clench. Thatch’s death was still fresh in his mind, and he couldn’t go home until he’d done what he’d set out to do, but even knowing that didn’t change his decision.

“It’s on hold for the moment,” he said, thinking of the little girl upstairs, and despite his earlier thoughts, felt a smile warming his mouth, because bringing Teach to justice wouldn’t change what he’d done, but finding Makino again would mean a significant change for those involved. Luffy and the others back home, and more than anything, Red-Hair.

Ace knew what he needed to do—knew that he was needed, for this more than anything else.

“This is more important.”

 

—

 

She was woken by the acute urge to pee.

Blinking her eyes open, she found herself in a room, on a soft bed, and with Ceto curled up on her chest. She was awake, as though she’d been keeping guard, but Rowan didn’t question why as she shuffled towards the edge of the mattress, and with a yawn that reached all the way to the tips of her fingers, went in search of a toilet.

The shared bathroom was on the ground floor, and she was careful to keep her footsteps light and her presence concealed, not wanting to run into anyone, in case she got them both caught. But she didn’t, and with her urgent business taken care of, she made to walk back upstairs when a voice stopped her, coming through one of the doors as she walked past.

“—I got her to agree to come with me.”

She stopped outside the door, frowning. It was Ace’s voice, and it sounded like he was talking to someone, and sensing no other presence inside the room, Rowan thought he had to be talking over a Den Den Mushi.

And he was talking about her.

He hadn’t sensed her coming. She was good at that, hiding her presence, like a tiny fish in the reeds. And with her curiosity piqued, she pressed her ear to the door.

 _“Come with you to...?”_ asked a different voice. It sounded a little distorted, and she didn’t know if it belonged to a man or a woman, but it was deep, and curious.

Maybe a man’s, then. Was it someone in his crew?

Her interest sparked in earnest now, at the prospect of overhearing a conversation with another of Whitebeard’s pirates, she listened.

“I told her I’d take her to the New World,” Ace said then, and she perked up with a grin. _What was that you were saying about trust, Ceto?_

_“And are you?”_

“Of course not. But she thinks that’s where we’re going. I just need to keep her occupied a little while longer.”

Her heart slammed against her breastbone, before it plummeted right through her stomach.

She backed away from the door, her hands shaking as she watched it, wide-eyed. And she didn’t know what was worse—the hurt that gripped her, or the fear that crept through the lining of her stomach, like she’d swallowed something cold.

Around her neck, Ceto tightened her grip. Her distress was evident, and Rowan felt it spurring her own, stoking the sense that always guided her, quick-footed through the forests back home, knowing which beasts to chase, and which to steer clear of—and when she’d done something very stupid, like stumble into a slumbering boar’s den.

_Run, Rowan!_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of the ineffable silverscream, regarding Makino's poorly concealed thirst: same, girl, same.
> 
> (and oh yeah, that happy AU of this is still happening)


	11. into the wide-open maw of the world

She ran so fast she tasted blood.

She hadn’t even stopped by her room to take anything with her, had just bolted, out past the reception without looking back, and too frantic to even glance over her shoulder, driven by the mindless need to get away, and quickly, before he realised she was gone.

What had he planned on doing with her?

The question was louder than her heart, which wanted to burst through her chest as she sprinted down the street from the inn, barely seeing where she was going. The port town was asleep, wrapped in the pale grey mist that had come in from the sea, giving everything a ghostly appearance, and she didn't recognise anything, not a single building or a street name. She hadn’t been paying attention when they’d come ashore, had been so tired and content to be carried, but she berated herself now, for being not being more careful.

She was relieved when Ceto didn’t chime in to remind her, a well-deserved ‘I told you so!’, but then Rowan felt her fear where she’d coiled herself tightly around her neck.

And she did remember then, all the warnings she’d grown up hearing. The murmurs of those who’d set out from Amazon Lily and returned, telling those who'd yet to make the journey to be wary of men, and their intentions. She’d overheard more than one conversation like that, hoping to catch an exciting tale from the world beyond, but hadn’t understood what they’d meant, or why men were so dangerous.

But whatever Ace’s true intentions had been, she didn’t want to find out, just wanted somewhere to hide, or to go far away where he couldn’t find her.

Her breaths were painful where they ripped from her chest, each one holding a sob, and she didn’t know what she was doing or where she was going, but she felt the sea within her always, and followed it like a compass, zig-zagging between the houses until she emerged at the harbour, where the sea greeted her, still and black and shrouded with mist.

It was so dark, she thought it had to be the middle of the night or really early in the morning, only a few lanterns lit by the ships moored along the docks. She heard the slow creaking of their timbers and their curious voices within her, but they didn't offer the comfort she'd hoped they would. Instead, the stillness around her only deepened her sense of panic, realising how exposed she was, all alone and easy to spot, like a hare under an open sky full of hawks.

“Where do I go?” she asked Ceto, and she hated how her voice quavered, hated how _scared_ she felt. “What do I do?”

And in that moment, standing on the empty docks in an unfamiliar port and with her heart trapped in her throat, she wanted to go _home_.

"I want mama," she said, and didn't care how scared she sounded now, or how pathetic.

Panicked, she looked over her shoulder, but he hadn't come after her, which meant he probably hadn't sensed her leaving. But if he went to check on her—

 _Breathe_ , Ceto said, curling tighter around her neck, her tail tugging at her mother’s anchor, the silver cool where it bobbed against her throat, trembling with the sobs she was trying to hold back. Her presence was calm, and Rowan grappled for it, as Ceto said, _think_.

Drawing a shuddering breath, she forced herself to stop thinking about Ace, and surveyed the docks. Maybe she could find somewhere to hide?

Then Ceto chanced, _Could we get on a ship?_

Walking alongside the ships, Rowan asked them, but it was difficult making sense of their voices when she couldn't seem to focus, although she gleaned that one of them was due for repairs and wouldn't be leaving for a few days yet, and another was due to depart at noon, but she couldn't wait that long.

 _The wolf_ , one of them said then, whose voice sounded like salt and cold and grey skies. She'd walked almost the whole length of the wharf by now, and she was about to ask her to explain, when she saw it.

“There,” Rowan said. Her voice sounded hoarse, from relief and the tears she was trying to hold back as she fixed her gaze on the ship she'd spotted, all the way down on the furthermost tip of the wharf, where she could see movement.

Moving closer, she saw that it was in the midst of being loaded, from the look of the crew working. It was early, which meant they had to be leaving soon, before first light.

And if that was the case, she was going to be on it.

But watching the ship, she found no opening that would allow her to sneak aboard unnoticed. Back home, she’d known the ship’s schedule, and the crew’s; had known the vessel inside-out and with her eyes shut, and had used that knowledge to stow away, but this was a completely different ship and crew, and she couldn’t just walk on board and hope for the best.

 _You could ask,_ Ceto said then, and Rowan started.

“Ask?”

_Ask the captain. Say you’ll work for it. Bigger sea serpents often allow smaller fish protection, for their labour._

Rowan considered the option, heart lifting a bit at the thought. Because of course, she could _ask_ —could work to pay for the passage, wherever they were going. It didn’t matter where, as long as it was far away. She’d find her way from there, but right now she needed to get off this island.

Having hidden herself among a stack of ship’s crates, she observed the crew working, busy carrying the cargo into the hold. She spied sacks of grain and heavy crates stamped with various labels, and even recognised some of them from when she’d watched her aunts unloading the ship at the docks back home. And asking the ship, she got it confirmed that it was a merchant vessel.

She had a name like a lion’s roar, rising up from deep in her gut; a challenger that liked the sea wild, to better hunt the waves. Rowan loved her instantly.

But watching the crew, her brows dipped, and indecision held her relief in check.

They were all men, or boys. There wasn’t a single woman to be seen among them, and she remembered auntie Kikyo saying something about an old practice that some crews kept up, on the seas outside the Calm Belt.

 _Foolish sailor superstition_ , she’d scoffed.  _Some men believe a woman on board is bad luck._

 _What do they think of Hime-sama’s crew, then?_ Rowan had asked. _They’re_ all _women._

Kikyo had smiled at that, like she’d found that question particularly amusing. _Encountering that ship is the worst kind of luck_ , she’d said, a little dryly.

_So perhaps they are correct._

Heart sinking back down from where it had lifted, “They won’t let me,” Rowan murmured, observing the deckhands as they made to carry the last of the crates onto the ship. “Not if I ask.” Not her, barely ten years old, even if the youngest among them didn’t look many years older. They wouldn’t take a girl.

But—maybe a boy.

She didn’t stop to think, reaching for the little knife she’d carried with her from Amazon Lily, the one her mother had made her, with the smooth, polished handle and the tiny blade. Her hands shook as she reached to grab a fistful of her hair.

She heard Ceto’s distress in her voice where it clanged through her mind. _Wait, what are you doing?!_

 _You must weigh the cost against the reward_ , she remembered Hime-sama saying, when Rowan had asked her what it meant to be Empress, and if it was very hard.

She'd caught her scaling the palace walls, looking for a new way into the battle arena, but despite her threat to toss her back down into the village, she'd let Rowan sit on her balcony, and ask her questions.

Legs swinging over the side, unafraid of the steep drop, Rowan had asked her,  _Do you do that a lot?_

Hime-sama hadn't smiled, had only looked down at the red rooftops of the village below, and said,  _Not only I._ _It is what we as women must do to survive in this world._ _Everything has a price, as you will one day learn, little menace._

Then she'd added, with a look Rowan hadn't understood, _But I hope it will not be the way I did._

The sharp blade sliced through her hair with ease, and she watched as it fell around her, the red tresses bright against the planks, and with it, the hopes she’d had of braiding it like her mother did, with her colourful scarves and freshwater pearls, and she felt the tears pressing against her eyes, but shoved them back.

It hadn’t been that long, barely to her shoulders, and it didn’t take her long to crop it short. Many of the other Kuja kept their hair that way, and she’d often considered the same, and didn’t know why she was so upset now, watching it where it littered the planks around her feet. Hair grew back out; it wasn’t like it was lost forever.

But it reminded her of her mother, and the pang of longing made her hands shake so hard, Rowan had to clench her fingers around the knife to keep from dropping it.

Sliding it back into its sheath, she reached up to run her fingers through her hair, feeling the short strands where it clung close to her skull. She wondered what she looked like.

“How do I look?” she asked Ceto, who peered up at her.

 _I do not know what human boys usually look like,_ she said. _But if you wish to look like a sailor, you’re too clean._

Frowning, Rowan glanced around the docks, before walking onto the stone wharf, covered by a thick layer of dust from the daily goings-on of a busy port, and rubbing her palms in the dirt, she smeared it across her cheeks.

“This will have to do,” she said, and didn’t wait for Ceto to comment as she unwound her from around her neck, to slip her into her pocket.

She hesitated on her mother’s anchor, before she tucked it beneath her shirt and out of sight. Then with her shoulders squared, she made to approach the crew.

“Hey,” she called out, walking up with a strut in her step, hoping raw confidence could make up for whatever else they found questionable about her. “Do you need an extra set of hands for the voyage?”

The ones working glanced up at her address, amusement shaping their smiles even as it didn't make them pause what they were doing, although a man who’d been overseeing their work turned to look at her. From the fact that he wasn’t lifting any of the cargo, Rowan thought he must either be the captain or someone of a higher rank.

Probably not the captain, though, she thought, observing his smooth features. He didn't even look like a proper sailor. At least _she'd_ made an effort.

Taking in her dirty cheeks, “Where are you parents?” he asked her. Not accusingly, which might have been warranted, given that she was roaming the docks at this hour alone. Instead, Rowan felt a flicker of sympathy in his presence, and what she thought might be understanding.

Hoping to play off that, “They’re not here,” she said. Not a lie, but the implication was suggestive enough, and coupled with how she looked, she hoped his imagination would fill in the blanks, preferably in her favour.

It did, from the way his brow smoothed, and she watched as he kneeled down before her. Behind him, the crew continued their work without pause. They’d almost gotten the last of the cargo on board.

“I was your age when my first captain took me in,” the man told her, drawing her eyes back from where they'd gone to the ship. He looked around Ace’s age, Rowan thought, although stopped herself before she could think about him, and kept herself from nervously glancing over her shoulder as he continued, “Gave me a home. Don’t know where I’d be today without that kindness.”

Rowan said nothing. She wasn’t a good liar, and the less she left up for him to assume, the better.

“I’ll do the work,” she said instead, and that was no lie, and she hoped her face convinced him of much she wanted it, not just to get away from the island, but to be part of the crew. Not a stowaway this time, but a sailor, even if she was just going to be a deckhand.

He observed her musingly for a long beat, before something made him glance up, and, “Captain Alasdair,” he said, rising to his feet, and Rowan followed his gaze to the ship’s captain walking down the gangway towards them.

He was a very tall man, broad over the shoulders, with an imposing presence that claimed space. As he came closer, Rowan saw that he was older, his hair iron grey and his cheeks stubbled with a dark beard. From under a high brow, a single, sharp eye seized hers, grey-and-green, like the forest back home after nightfall. The other was like Aster’s, blind, and clear as glass.

She had the sudden impression that his face looked familiar, but couldn’t pinpoint just where she’d seen it. She hadn’t met that many men in her life, after all.

“Touya,” he said, addressing the man she'd been speaking with, as he came to a stop at the bottom of the gangway, before his one-eyed gaze settled on Rowan. “What do we have here?”

He had a commanding air and a voice to match, deep and resonant, and his inflections thickened with an accent she'd never heard before, that rolled pleasantly off his tongue.

She tried not to shrink in front of him. With his dark grey hair and keen gaze, it felt like facing down a wolf in the woods, and she didn't have to wonder at the description she'd been given earlier.

The man she’d spoken to—Touya—nodded to her. “Kid’s an orphan. Was just asking if we need another set of hands on deck.”

The captain observed her, still with that quiet cunning, his look hard and assessing, and swallowing thickly, Rowan raised her chin and met it without flinching.

His gaze lingered a moment on her hair, and there was a second where she feared she’d cut it for nothing.

“D'ye ken anything about sailing?” he asked her then, and her heart skipped in her chest. He hadn’t turned her down!

“I know ships,” she said fiercely, and didn’t have to feign her confidence this time, shaping her grin as wide as it would go, as though daring him to have her prove it.

A look of surprise passed over his features, before it was gone, and he let go of a breath, not quite a chuckle or a scoff but something in between. “Is that right?” he asked. And he wasn’t smiling, but she had the sudden sense that he was amused.

Watching her, there was a flicker of something in his presence, an emotion that was gone before she’d had the chance to name it, and then he told her, “Alright. There’s enough to do, and you’re wee, so you wouldn’t take up much space. You’ll help the cook, and scrub the deck.”

She didn’t know if it was relief or happiness that made her heart swell so fiercely, and she thought it must show on her face, from the way his expression eased a bit. Not a softening, but close.

“What’s your name, lad?” the captain asked.

She hesitated, but then, “Rowan,” she said, before realising belatedly that she had no idea if that was even a boy’s name here.

She was surprised when a half-smile teased the corner of his hard mouth upwards this time. “Wee ruadh one, eh?” he murmured. “Aye, and you are that.” He nodded to the ship behind him. “Head up to the galley. The cook will have breakfast ready soon. You’ll need it for the work.”

With a grin that hurt, Rowan scampered past him up the gangway, before she skidded to a stop just before coming aboard, spinning around as she fixed her eyes on him again, and blurted, “Where are we going?” And the answer didn’t really matter, but now that she had a means of escaping, she found herself suddenly curious, excited not just by the prospect of getting away, but of seeing someplace new; of being on a ship, a part of its crew.

The captain still didn’t smile, but she felt again the impression of amusement in the way his grey eye twinkled, as he told her in that curious accent,

“The kingdom of Alabasta.”

 

—

 

“You do know she’s a girl, right?” his second mate asked him, after the wee minnow had skipped aboard, fleet-footed in a way that had made him pause. He had deckhands twice her age who weren't half as nimble.

Alasdair's smile tilted wryly, thinking of the tiny sprite, who'd held her small shoulders like she'd been prepared to convince the sea itself to allow her passage on his ship. “Aye, I figured.” She was bold as anything, he’d give her that, but as far as deception went, she couldn’t have sold the ruse if he’d been blind in both eyes. Not with that open face, too honest for its own good.

“You don’t usually welcome new members without papers,” Touya continued mildly. “I came recommended by two different captains, but even then you weren’t impressed. Said my face was enough evidence of my sailing experience.”

“It is,” he retorted dryly, and saw Touya shake his head. But for all his lack of any true grit, he was a decent second officer.

And despite his teasing, there was genuine curiosity in the remark, asking why he’d made the exception. He wasn’t known for that, after all, and had been told more than once throughout his life that he was too ruthless for pity and special cases. But then they were probably right.

He shrugged, as though to physically shrug off the sensation that lingered in her wake, an almost palpable presence. “Just something about her,” he said. “Reminded me of someone.” That smile, and the red hair. Not the wild mane she’d had, the one the wind would send flying with her laughter, but the colour had struck a chord in him, in a long-untouched place.

He shook his head. Gone almost thirty years, but her ghost still haunted him, finding him with every laughing storm that chased his ship, and the red horizon in the morning. An old sailor’s omen, and he’d called her that once to her face, and she’d laughed so hard she’d nearly toppled off the bench where she’d been sitting, her pregnant belly heavy with their child, cradled in her hands, her long sailor’s fingers with their rope burns and thick clusters of freckles. No one laughed like she had, with her whole body.

Looking up at his ship, he considered that canny awareness that made him wonder, not for the first time, if it was more than just a homage he’d invited by having her made; a fool’s remembrance wrought from redwood and the westward waters that had borne her, and their son.

“Captain?”

Glancing up confirmed that the docks were cleared, and Dair nodded. Beyond the port, the sea was bringing the dawn, a tint of red staining the grey sky above the horizon that left an acutely wry pang in his chest, but as with every voyage, he welcomed the the sea’s challenge, and whatever else she promised.

“Raise the anchor,” he said, as he made to walk up the gangway, his gaze fixed on the sea, and the morning sky where it bled. And if she was an ill omen, the fate she promised him probably served him right, for the wrongs he’d done her, and their son.

The thought of him was followed by familiar regret, but then it didn’t help that his face was so frequently pictured in the newspaper. But perhaps that was his punishment. It wasn’t his legacy to claim, that greatness, and the nobility that didn’t need a crown to declare him a conqueror. No, like the red hair, that was hers, who would have conquered the sea herself if she hadn’t chosen differently; if she hadn’t chosen their boy, like Dair had failed to do.

Of course, almost forty years old now, their son wasn’t a boy anymore, as the newspaper regularly reminded him. And despite bearing an uncanny resemblance, no one had ever pointed it out to him, but then that was probably for the best. Dair didn’t exactly advertise their connection.

Although, he thought wryly, he doubted anyone would believe him if he did.

 

—

 

Makino stared down the man across the galley, an arrival so unexpected, she was still catching up with the rest of her senses. Because out at sea in this weather, she hadn’t expected anyone to arrive, and least of all _him_.

She had her guard thrown up, her mental shields raised, and only then did she realise how much she'd let them drop, having let herself grow so complacent, she hadn't caught his arrival before he'd already stepped aboard. She'd forgotten to be mindful of her surroundings, had, foolishly, thought she'd been safe here, and had to scramble to collect herself now; to regain control of the situation, and her position.

But even with her mind fortified, it did little to shield against that penetrating gaze, which cut right through her mental defences to her unprotected marrow.

She was abruptly brought back to their last meeting, but back then she’d had her whole crew at her back and a ship between them, and she was suddenly, terrifyingly aware of how much had changed, and how vulnerable her new position was, recognising that Red-Hair’s crew all knew him, which left Makino, as always, the odd one out.

And fast on the heels of that realisation was another; that his arrival was by no means a coincidence, and that his careful interest the day they’d spoken in Marineford had a very good reason.

“You knew who I was,” she said, and heard how her voice shivered, but couldn't say if it was fear or anger that made it that way.

Her name—he’d asked her for her _name_ , because he'd known what it was, and when he’d told her he’d mistaken her for someone else, he’d been lying.

For his part, Hawk-Eyes appeared as unperturbed by her reaction to him as he was by the fact that he was dripping wet, and looked only mildly surprised at finding her on Red-Hair's ship. But if there was any comfort at all to wring from the sudden turn of events, it was that at least he hadn’t known he would find her with Red-Hair.

“I suspected,” he told her simply, with that infuriating calm. “You matched the description I’d been given, and your name confirmed it.” He looked at Red-Hair, and explained, “Our paths crossed recently. I thought to inform you.”

Makino drew back, but the stove behind her didn’t allow her to retreat more than half a step. And like her fear, she couldn’t help her own reaction, but she didn’t like the implication of what he was saying—that he’d recognised her in Marineford, had known who she was, and instead of telling her of his suspicions, he’d gone straight to Red-Hair.

She tried to imagine what might have happened if they hadn’t come across each other on that island, and if all Red-Hair would have known was that she was with the Kuja. Would he have gone to Amazon Lily to find her? From what she'd seen and learned about him, the tenacity that didn't care who it offended and the will that had given even Hancock's a run for her money, if Red-Hair knew the location of their island, Makino thought he would have. He wouldn't have cared about their laws, or the swift death Hancock had promised, for breaking them.

She tried not to let herself follow that thought any further—to a future where Rowan was safely home with her. What could they do to stop him, if Red-Hair decided he wouldn't be kept from seeing her?

Hawk-Eyes was still watching her, seeming to gauge her, although in a different way than he had that day in Marineford. Makino saw his gaze where it swept down, taking in her unbound hair and Red-Hair's cloak around her, before something she swore looked like amusement quirked those severe brows upwards.

She wanted, inexplicably, to throw something at him. Or just to have something to hold on to, anything that she could use to protect herself if the need arose.

Movement beside her made her start, only to find Marsh’s towering shape where he’d stepped up to the stove. And he said nothing, merely flicked his gaze to the table nearest to where she was standing, where a large cooking knife had appeared that hadn’t been there before.

She didn’t know what to do with the silent offering—sob, or blurt a laugh, but it helped, although she didn’t allow her shoulders to relax, keeping her gaze fixed on Hawk-Eyes, who hadn’t moved an inch.

Red-Hair had put himself between them, the protective gesture not as brazen as Hancock's had been but still obvious, and Makino tried to avoid his gaze and the things in it, as though he was trying to piece together the events leading up to Hawk-Eyes’ arrival.

“Is that why you’re here?” Makino asked him, and couldn’t keep the note of accusation out of her voice, but couldn’t help it. He had no loyalty to her, hadn’t known her before she’d lost her memories, although he’d obviously known who she was.

His expression didn’t yield even a hint of emotion, but, “That, and for one other reason,” Hawk-Eyes said, and Makino watched as he withdrew something from his coat, before handing it to Red-Hair. It was a sheaf of paper, and she saw Red-Hair turn it over, before his eyes widened.

“What is that?” she asked warily, arrested by the look on his face, for a moment so unguarded, he let everything show. She couldn't look away from him, and she couldn’t name half the things she found in his eyes as he looked at the paper, recognisably a wanted poster, even as she couldn’t see whose it was. But whoever was on it, it was news to Red-Hair, who Makino couldn’t decide if looked happy or just the opposite.

He said nothing, only handed it to her, and accepting it, Makino turned it over to look at the photograph.

It showed a boy. Or a young man, it was hard to tell just how old he was from the picture, but the youthful roundness of his cheeks made her think of a teenager. He was grinning, a wide-toothed smile that took up most of his face. A tiny scar bisected his cheek right under his eye, and he wore a straw hat on his head with a red and yellow ribbon. Beneath the picture was a name, and a bounty of 30 million berri that made her blink. It seemed a lot, for someone that young.

“Monkey D. Luffy?” she asked, lifting her eyes, only to find a painfully expectant expression on Red-Hair’s face, but whatever he found in hers, it was quickly replaced with an infinitely sad one.

“Yeah,” he said heavily, and didn’t quite manage the smile he attempted. “He’s from your village.”

She started, and looked at the wanted poster again. “My village?” Her eyes roamed the photograph, and the smiling boy in it, before she asked, quietly, “I knew him?”

Red-Hair nodded. It was obvious from his reaction that he'd hoped she would recognise him. “You used to take care of him. A surrogate mom of sorts.”

_Surrogate._

The word lanced through her, stuttering her breath, and she nearly dropped the wanted poster, but had regained control of herself a second later, although she saw how her hands shook where they gripped the paper, wrinkling it.

She felt Red-Hair’s concern, and was relieved when he didn’t move to touch her, even as the worry in his voice felt like a physical touch, when he asked her, “Makino?”

“It’s nothing,” she said hoarsely, even as she knew it wasn’t convincing. But she hadn’t been prepared for the resurgence of memories, from the time she’d done her best to forget—had believed she’d put it behind her, but a single mention and it felt like a second one would unravel her completely, when she was already struggling holding on to herself.

The voices around her sounded far away, even as she heard the worry in them, and she willed herself back to the galley, centring her focus on the wanted poster in her hands, and the photograph.

She thought of what Red-Hair had said, not touching the word itself, only what it meant in this context; another piece in the puzzle of who she’d been. The girl in the little port in East Blue, the young barmaid whose mother had just passed away, and who’d been someone else’s mother, even before her daughter had been born.

She’d never imagined she might have left a child behind. She’d thought, naively, that being so young, the one in her belly would have been her first. She hadn’t imagined that she might have mattered to someone in that way. The young man in the photograph couldn’t even be twenty years old. If she’d disappeared from his life ten years ago, he’d been just a boy. Who had he been left with?

She looked at the wanted poster, taking in every minute detail. And she’d been wary of getting her memories back, fearing that spending time with Red-Hair’s crew would unearth something she’d rather not know, but looking at the smiling young man, she was seized by a sudden desire to remember, and for the first time in a long time Makino  _willed_ herself to do it, but no matter how hard she tried, there was nothing.

Her heart hurt, like something was squeezing it, and she couldn’t seem to claim her breath, feeling suddenly dizzy, like she was on the verge of passing out.

Unable to bear looking at it any longer, she handed the wanted poster back to Red-Hair, her voice hoarse as she told him, “I don’t remember.”

She turned her gaze away from him, but she wasn’t quick enough, and didn’t miss the hurt in his eyes, as she fixed her own on Hawk-Eyes.

She saw when realisation alighted in that sharp gaze as he put the pieces together, although it was a subdued reaction, and when he looked to Red-Hair, whatever silent question he asked, Hawk-Eyes found his answer in his silence.

“I came across his crew, some weeks ago,” he said then, and Makino saw Red-Hair look at him, surprised, as Hawk-Eyes added, “In East Blue.”

Her heart skipped at the mention, as Red-Hair frowned, and asked him, “You were in East Blue?”

Hawk-Eyes merely said, “A minor detour to take care of business.” Then he looked at Makino. “As Government Warlords, we have our orders. On which note I am compelled to ask, where is your captain?” He glanced at Red-Hair and the galley, before he said, a little wryly, “Something tells me she would not condone this arrangement.”

“You’d be right,” Red-Hair said, similarly wry, but he didn't elaborate, or explain what she was doing there.

Curious, Hawk-Eyes held her gaze now. “I am surprised, I will not deny it. Your tribe is in a precarious position.” And it wasn’t unkindly spoken, but she still felt each word like a stab. “I attended the same meeting. Boa Hancock has a lot resting on those orders. As her second, you know what is at stake, should she fail to deliver.”

Eyes wide, Makino glared, and couldn't tell if it was outrage or something far more incriminating that had heat flaring in her cheeks at the blatant insinuation. And what was he even suggesting—that she’d abandoned her crew, her duties and her whole tribe, to be with Red-Hair?

 _You did_ , an unhelpful voice spoke up within her, but she’d silenced it before she could flinch back at the reminder.

Her blush scalded her, and this time it _was_ anger, even as she didn’t know if she was angry at Hawk-Eyes or herself, or Red-Hair, but she refused to cower, and to have her loyalty questioned by someone who didn’t even have all the facts, although looking at Hawk-Eyes, she couldn’t escape the impression that he knew much more about her than he let on.

“I’m here for my daughter,” Makino said, with a glance at Red-Hair, and didn’t know why it felt necessary to say it, but before she could think about it, she’d spat, “Nothing else.”

She’d expected him to be hurt, and might even have felt a flicker of perverse desire to _see_ him hurt, but his face remained carefully blank, and to her surprise, Makino thought she caught the gleam of a challenge in his eyes now, but before she could question what that suggested, she’d dragged her gaze away, even as all the other eyes in the galley remained fixed on her.

And all at once, it was too much, the reminder of her exile and the crew around her, and the new arrival, all of them people who knew her while she couldn’t say the same; who felt like they all owned a part of her she could never get back, and didn’t know if she even wanted to. She felt exposed, even covered in Red-Hair’s cloak—stripped down to her skin, all the way to her soul.

And she couldn’t bear thinking about the wanted poster, and that young man with the big smile and the straw hat, her heart hurting like it was breaking in her chest.

She turned, and without sparing either of them so much as a parting glance, strode out of the galley, and was relieved when no one moved to stop her.

The door slammed shut behind her, breaking the focus of those intense eyes, which had seen more than she’d wanted to reveal, and she hated that she couldn’t hide her reactions better—that she couldn’t be like him, or Hancock, still and cool as marble, without her face revealing her every thought and feeling.

Needing to gather herself, somewhere she felt safe, Makino walked right past Red-Hair’s quarters and veered a sharp left, towards the ladder leading belowdecks, and the library that waited there, quietly and without judgement. The only place on the ship where she felt truly herself, and without the need to question who she was, or had been before.

 

—

 

She left the galley, and Shanks tracked her passage across the ship, past his quarters and down belowdecks, and despite the morning’s events, couldn’t help the feeling that seized him when he realised where she was headed.

After what could only be described as a tense lull, Shanks looked at Mihawk. “Could you have less tact?”

“You found her,” Mihawk said, breezing right past him.

Had the situation not been what it was, Shanks might have pointed out the redundancy of that statement, along with a cheerful jibe about Mihawk's reputed observational skills, but instead he said, “The other way around, actually. But I repeat: could you possibly have _less_ tact?”

“I meant no offence,” Mihawk countered smoothly. “I do not know all the details regarding her presence here, only what I have discerned.”

“Yeah, well could you discern things privately next time? I’m trying to build some trust here, not give her more reasons to keep her distance.”

Mihawk met his gaze calmly. “I doubt my presence will hinder your progress.” Then with a glance in the direction Makino had stormed out, “She is too shrewd to be waylaid by my lack of discretion.”

Shanks sighed, but couldn’t help the chuckle. “Yeah,” he agreed, reaching for her now, in the hold below, although he was careful not to make it too obvious. “She’s a good judge of character.”

“She is also emotionally driven,” Mihawk said. “For better or worse.” Then he added, dryly, with a glance at Shanks, “But then so are you.”

Shanks didn’t disagree, but then Mihawk had known him since they were boys. And even if his temper wasn’t the same as it had been back then, some things hadn’t changed, like the fact that he acted on his heart before his better judgement.

Remembering another who did the same, he looked at Luffy’s wanted poster again, finding his face grinning back, so much older than it had been, but still recognisably the same boy; the one who'd had a hundred questions and for each one a hundred follow-ups, and who'd always acted beyond his means, pretending to be stronger than he was, and braver, until Shanks hadn't been able to tell what was feigned and what was the truth.

He thought of the brave boy who’d adored her, who hadn’t had a mother or father, but who’d had her, and everything she’d given, which was no less than she would have given their daughter, Shanks knew. And it was pride and grief in equal measure, seeing with his own two eyes how many years it had been since he’d seen him, and the young man it had made from that boy, who’d boldly promised to surpass him.

Shanks didn’t know how to face him. Not when he hadn’t been able to find her, when he of all people should have, if not for Makino’s and their daughter’s sake, then for the little boy who’d loved her. And what was he supposed to tell Luffy now? That she had no memory of him, or her life before she’d been taken? He couldn't even bear the thought.

“Memory loss,” Mihawk said then, putting words to his thoughts, and Shanks sighed.

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.” Sometimes he caught himself forgetting—like this morning, waking in one of the hammocks in the crew's quarters, a half-remembered dream still at his fingertips, as soft as her skin, and he’d reached for her before he’d woken fully and realised where he was, and why. And then when she’d stepped out on deck, there’d been a moment—hopeful, _painful_ —where the thought had found him, that she might have woken up with her memories; that something might have triggered them into returning, before she’d looked at him and there’d been nothing but that now-familiar wariness in her eyes.

“She doesn’t remember me,” he said. “It’s been awkward, to say the least.” Unbidden, the reminder found him, of her relief when she’d had her fears disproven, that he’d raped her. “And—difficult,” he added, swallowing the bile that had inched up his throat, and forced himself to remember that even if she didn’t trust him yet, at least she didn’t fear him anymore.

Mihawk frowned. “You appear to be in good spirits, considering.” He looked at Ben. “What am I missing?”

“He’s made up his mind to make her fall in love with him again,” Ben said, to a roar of approval from the rest of his crew, and abruptly, the galley shrugged off the last of the tension that had been left in the wake of Makino’s departure.

“Ah,” Mihawk said, with a glance at Shanks. “That explains the cloak.”

“Hey,” Shanks shot back, and despite his earlier thoughts, couldn’t help the grin. “I’m not taking flack for my romantic attempts from _you._ That move was a big hit with her before.” Then, with an air of cheerful spite, “And she hasn’t taken it off.”

“From what I remember of your excessive adulations of her character, she is a practical creature," Mihawk said. "Perhaps she was merely cold.” He observed him quietly, before he asked, although this time without cheek, “What of the books?”

“You mean have I told her they’re hers?” Shanks asked. “No. I don’t want to overwhelm her.” As grand as the gesture might come off in theory, that wasn’t her, the girl who’d loved small, subtle gestures more than anything. From what he'd learned of her so far, Shanks didn't think that had changed.

Mihawk made a short, considering sound. “I am surprised you could contain yourself.”

Shanks just looked at him, and said simply, “I’m not fucking this up.”

Mihawk said nothing to that, but the look in his eyes conveyed understanding—and approval, although he’d never vocally admit to it.

“I shall be interested in seeing if you are successful,” he said instead, with a glance at his crew, seated around the galley. “And I assume I am not amiss in guessing there is a betting pool.”

“It’s growing,” Ben supplied from his seat. He was rolling himself a cigarette, and lighting it, took a long drag, before he expelled it, and said, “Right now it’s split between what it will take to get her memories back, and how long she can take him strutting around like a peacock before she does something about it.”

“I’m just hoping she doesn’t shoot me,” Shanks muttered, with a wry smile, and a glance towards the library below.

“Going by the way she was looking at you earlier, I wouldn’t worry about getting your feathers plucked, Boss,” Yasopp interjected, grinning. "Not in that way, anyway. Then again, she’s a sensible little thing, still. Knowing her, she’s already busy talking sense into herself.”

“Whose side are you on?” Shanks asked him.

Still grinning, “I’m just saying,” Yasopp defended. “‘Course, she’s proved me wrong before. We all remember the incident with the nightdress.”

A whole galley’s worth of glasses were raised with an uncannily synchronised holler of agreement, and Yasopp’s grin widened, as he said, “I’m thinking I’ll pitch my best a little differently this time around. Go all out from the start.”

"My money's on the sparring!” someone called out, to further _hoots_ of approval.

At Mihawk’s inquiring look, Shanks shrugged. “I offered.”

“Strictly for selfless reasons, I take it?”

“Mostly,” Shanks retorted, and there was truth in that, although he didn’t say that it wasn’t in his best interest to train her, given that she sought to win back her place among her tribe, which would mean he might not get to see her, or Rowan. But if she wanted to go back, Shanks wouldn’t stop her, and wouldn’t respect her decision any less now than he had when she’d turned down his offer to come with him ten years ago, to be a pirate.

But maybe, like the promise she’d made him back then, to say _yes_ when he asked her again, they could make a compromise this time, too. Something that would allow him to see her, and their daughter, even if she went back to the Kuja.

And…he also hoped that she might feel differently by that time. That, even if she couldn’t remember him, she might still want to stay with him. That she might love him again, like she had. And maybe that was a fool’s dream, but he wasn’t beyond hinging his fate on it now. If he was going to make a gamble, he was going all in.

“You believe subjecting her to your teaching will win her affections?” Mihawk asked.

Shanks just smiled, and refrained from saying that he was intimately familiar with certain proclivities she had, including a painfully obvious submissive kink. He doubted losing her memories had affected _that._

He also doubted she’d appreciate him sharing it with his whole crew, and Mihawk, and so kept his thoughts to himself.

“No,” he said instead, and with a knowing look, “but I think close proximity and combative sparring spurred on by unresolved and mildly belligerent sexual tension will help things along.”

Mihawk had, tellingly, nothing clever to say to that, but then he was keenly observant, and Shanks knew it hadn't escaped him, even in the short time he'd been aboard. It was impossible not to notice it, and the palpable tension between them might have several reasons, but that was definitely one of them.

And Shanks wasn’t blind. He’d caught the entirely unsubtle glances she’d been stealing, which were so wonderfully familiar, it was almost too easy to fall back into old patterns with her, like re-learning steps in a dance he’d loved but hadn’t done in so long, he’d almost forgotten how. Not to mention, she still couldn’t keep her face from revealing her thoughts, and whatever else she might think of him presently, the one thing Shanks could say for certain was that she was physically attracted to him.

What she felt about that, now that was something only Makino knew, and it would take more than attraction to win her back, but it was a good place to start.

He also wanted to see the extent of her abilities, and what ten years with one of the strongest warrior tribes in the world had made of her, ravenous just from the brief glimpse he’d caught during her fight with Hancock, and when he’d watched her on deck earlier. Shanks wanted to see if she could hold her own against him, and if she couldn’t yet, wanted to see what it would take to get her there.

If it also gave him the opportunity to be near her, maybe even touch her again, then that was an added bonus. He respected her boundaries, but it had been ten years, and he wasn’t a saint.

“She said she was here for your daughter,” Mihawk said then, drawing his thoughts back from where they’d drifted, to how she’d looked, blindfolded as she'd danced with that deadly grace, her dainty shape strung taut like a bowstring.

His breath gusted out at the reminder, although their girl was never far from his thoughts. “She’s missing,” Shanks explained, and tried not to let himself get carried away, wondering where she was now, and if she was safe. “We’re trying to find her. That’s why she agreed to come with me.”

He paused, before adding, “Boa Hancock exiled her.” Shaking his head, he pinched the bridge of his nose, his chuckle rough and unconvincing. “It’s a long story, for all that it’s been less than two days.”

“I will not mind the telling,” Mihawk said. Then with a wry glance towards the door, "And I suspect she will not be amenable to share it, although I concede that is perhaps the result of my own transgression.”

“You’re actually admitting to shoving your own foot in your mouth?”

“Wonders will never cease,” Mihawk deadpanned.

Shanks expelled a laughing breath, and found it came a little easier this time. “I’ll talk to her later. Right now, she probably just wants some space.” He gestured to one of the tables, and someone moved to bring over a bottle of wine. “Red, right?”

And joining him by the table as Mihawk took a seat, Shanks felt the last of the cold left over by the storm leave him, as he sank onto the bench. Someone poured him a drink, but he didn’t touch it, warmed instead by the good humour that filled the galley, having replaced the earlier tension. And keeping Makino’s presence at his fingertips, he allowed himself to relax, sensing nothing more from her than exhaustion, and a twinge of that familiar, gentle irritation that threatened to make his mouth lift with a smile.

Mihawk said nothing, waiting for him to speak, and Shanks was reminded of a night in Loguetown ten years ago, when he’d bought a sword for a girl on a whim, and Mihawk, who’d named him a fool for it, but who’d still asked about her.

He almost didn’t know where to begin now. It had barely been two days, but so many things had happened, the change from how his life had been before was so profound, he was still feeling the aftershocks, and probably would for some time yet.

But he thought he could start at the heart of it all; the one thing that anchored him now, with so many things still uncertain.

His smile found him without resistance, and even if he didn’t have much to tell, he had something, although it still didn’t feel like it would ever be enough.

“Her name is Rowan.”

 

—

 

 _Muirgen,_ she was called, and that first day aboard, she fell in love—with the planks and the rigging, and the sound of the sails, cracking like laughter in the wind; with the smell of brine and wood-oil and cooking, and the movements of the vessel beneath her, with that wild, roaring spirit.

Rowan learned her voice, husky and lovely, like woodsmoke and the west wind, and the things she knew of the waters she sailed. She hailed from West Blue originally, where her captain had had her made, but had been sailing these waters for over twenty years. She was built from sturdy wood which shone red in the sun, and beneath the bowsprit was the figurehead of a lioness in hunt, her teeth bared to the oncoming waves.

Her captain was a hard man, but not unkind. He spoke little, and preferred his own company, but his crew had great respect for him, which she’d gathered quickly from observing them talking as they worked, and the captain where he walked, a quiet prowl across the deck of a ship he knew with his eyes shut.

Touya was nice, but kind of boring. Like her, he was new to the Grand Line, and still adjusting to the weather and the sea, which had been kinder where he’d come from, or so he’d told her, but to be honest, Rowan had stopped listening, too enraptured by her new surroundings, and the voice of the ship where it talked to her, and laughed, delighted by her eagerness.

Captain Dair put her to work right away, scrubbing the cook’s pots in the galley after breakfast, and peeling potatoes when she was done, as the first grey hours of the morning crawled towards noon, before she was given a break and a bite to eat, and had climbed up by the bowsprit, as far out as she’d dared, eating her lunch with one leg dangling off the side and the sea spray wetting her freckles.

And sitting at the bow as the ship leaped across the water, her lungs filled with fresh sea air and her belly with hot stew, she felt a moment of such a wild, uncontainable _happiness_ , Rowan hadn’t been able to hold back the belly-deep laugh that had spilled from her, out into the open air, and down into the sea where the prow split the waves, the lioness on her hunt. She hadn’t felt scared then, or homesick, although there’d been a breathless second where she’d thought, her eyes filling with tears as the wind whipped her shorter hair, that she wanted to tell her mother about it.

The ship creaked, her voice running through the timbers, inquiring. And wiping her eyes, Rowan grinned, and told her about their own hunts, and her mama, who was the best hunter in their tribe; who'd taught her that even hunters must show mercy, and kindness, and who was the most beautiful on their whole island, no matter what people said about Hime-sama.

And if any of the crew found it strange, her voice raised as she talked into the wind but the words lost under the roar, they only shook their heads, and let her be.

By the time they reached their first port of call, everyone on board knew who she was, and had answered all her questions, about their trade route and what goods they carried. The cook had been impressed with her peeling skills, and Touya with her sailor’s knots, which she’d demonstrated proudly for the whole crew, with quick, nimble fingers.

The captain had observed it quietly, and had offered nothing but a single correction, but he'd taken the time to show her how to do it right, and had almost smiled when she’d repeated it, again and again until she could do it with her eyes closed.

It was late in the afternoon, half a day behind them that felt like a whole life to Rowan, but she didn’t think about Ace, or about being scared, as she looked over the railing at the port where they’d drawn up, the golden harbour and the white stone buildings baking in the last of the sunlight.

They still had a few more stops on their schedule before they arrived at their last one, a desert kingdom called Alabasta. Rowan had never even heard of it, but felt excited just at the prospect of seeing a desert. She’d only ever seen sand at the beach, but the crew had told her about the great sand sea, and the pirates who sailed it.

Having finished unloading the ship, they left to get a drink at the local tavern, leaving her standing on deck, unsure of what to do with her work done for the day. She doubted they’d let her go to the tavern with them like she did back home, and watching the port where it waited, felt restless with the need to explore it, but she didn’t want to leave the ship without permission.

“Wee ruadh one,” Captain Dair spoke up behind her, the heavy accent carrying his deep voice, and she turned to find him holding out his hand, and jumped when he dropped a few coins into the cup of her palms.

For a startled moment, Rowan just stared at them, before lifting her eyes up in confusion.

“You’ve done good work,” he told her simply, without further embellishment, although from him, the words felt more significant than even the weight of the coins.

He nodded to the port, that lone grey-green eye holding hers. “It’ll be two hours before we set sail, so take the time to stretch your legs, but be back here before we raise the gangway at sundown. We’ve got more sea to cover yet before our next stop.”

Grinning, she closed her fingers around the coins, feeling their heaviness in her hands, and what it promised. She was free to buy anything! “Aye, Captain!”

She practically flew off the gangway, and didn’t look back to catch his reaction, too distracted by what awaited and unable to contain her excitement.

The town lay nestled like a cluster of berries in a snug, hollow cove, the houses connected by a tight network of streets, branching from the harbour. Fat cherry trees lined the footpaths, dripping with plump fruits such a dark red they looked black, and she could smell them in the air, the sweet fragrance mixing with various mouth-watering smells drifting out of restaurants and bakeries.

They were lighting lanterns along the harbour as the sun set, strung between the wooden docks where the breeze nudged them into swinging gently, and everywhere she turned her head, there was something new to catch her eye. It wasn’t a very big port, not like the one they’d left, but it had plenty of shops and street vendors. So many, in fact, that Rowan didn’t know where to begin.

Reaching into her pocket, she peered down at Ceto, who'd curled around her wrist. “You can come out now,” Rowan told her.

An irritated hiss met her, before Ceto slithered back into her pocket. _I’ll stay here, thank you,_ she sniffed. _Might as well get used to it._

“I’m sorry,” Rowan said, with genuine apology. She didn't like being cooped up, either. “But they’d probably freak out if they saw you.” Even if she was just a baby, finding a live snake on board might rattle the crew.

She got a stretch of indignant silence for that, before Ceto poked her head out reluctantly, her small, pink tongue slithering past her teeth as she peered at the town. _Where are we?_

Rowan grinned, but didn’t point out the poorly contained curiosity in her voice. For all her grousing, Ceto didn’t hate adventuring as much as she pretended to do. “I have no idea. But I’m going to look around.”

Ceto ducked her head back inside her pocket. _Just be careful._

“Yeah, yeah,” Rowan said, as she set off into the town at a half-run, hungry gaze fixed on the market stalls ahead, and stomach beckoned by the smells coming from that direction. “Don’t worry so much. We’re just here for two hours. How much trouble could I cause in two hours?”

_Do I need to remind you of what happened last time—_

She’d just rounded a corner when she suddenly barrelled into what felt like a wall, the impact knocking her back on her ass, and her breath from her lungs as she sprawled in the dirt, the coins in her hands scattering. “ _Oof_ —!”

“Hey!”

A voice called out in surprise, and her eyes flew up as a dark shadow fell across her, seeming for a moment to obscure the whole street, before a grin cut through it, as the man she’d bumped into let out a loud, booming laugh, and Rowan watched as a big hand was held out to her. “Ah, sorry about that, little lady! Forgot to look where I was going.”

He was huge—the tallest man she’d ever seen, and her hand looked comically small where she tucked it into his palm, as he helped her up from the ground. Kneeling down, he brushed the dust off her clothes, his grin too wide for affront, which allowed her heart to inch down from where it had careened into her throat.

But remembering what he’d said, she was quick to blurt out, “I’m not a girl.”

She saw his eyes where they gleamed, and wondered if he believed her. “No?” the man chuckled, and she knew he didn’t, but he only looked amused by the charade, his grin still wide and cheerful, and revealing several missing teeth. Some of the ones he had were set with gold, but despite that, his smile looked comfortable on his face.

She caught his wink, and her own grin responded, as he told her, “My bad, then. I’ve been meaning to get my eyes checked. Guess this is as good a reminder as any.”

His voice was deep, and sounded like he laughed a lot. He had thick, curly hair, the colour so black it seemed to suck up all the light where it tumbled around his wide shoulders, and he wore his shirt open at the front, revealing a flintlock pistol tucked into the sash wrapped around his waist.

Remembering Ace, she wondered briefly if it was common for men to bare their chests like that, and why. It wasn’t very practical, exposing so many vital spots.

She watched him reaching down to pick up the coins she’d dropped when she’d collided with him, before putting them into her hands.

“That ain’t a lot to spend,” he said, frowning as he considered her small hoard: a single silver and two coppers.

Grinning, Rowan shook her head in disagreement. “It’s more than I’ve ever had.” Which was true, at least with this currency.

His grin widened at that, and she saw how it split his whole face, as though he liked her answer. “Yeah?” he chuckled, the sound softer than it had been earlier, even as something hard entered his eyes. “I can relate to that.”

Reaching up, he made a sudden flourish with his fingers, and before she knew it he’d fished out a shiny gold coin from behind her ear. Her eyes rounded, enthralled as she watched him place it into her hands with the rest, the single coin heavier than all the others combined, but when she made to protest, he closed her fingers around it.

“There’s a bakery just down the way,” he told her, grinning that gold-toothed smile. “Got the best cherry pies this side of the Red Line. Make them give you a big slice.”

Rowan liked him, then. Nodding firmly, she grinned. “Thank you!”

The stranger ruffled her hair, before he paused, and his brows drew together in a bemused expression as he considered it. But she didn’t question his reaction—she’d been told many times that it was unusually red—just made to move past him, before she stopped, and spinning around, Rowan bowed her head deeply. Polite, like her mother had taught her. “And sorry for bumping into you!”

Then with the flash of a grin, she was off. She had two hours to spend, and even more money now than she’d had, and she was planning on making the most of it.

And she wanted a slice of that pie.

 

—

 

“Captain?”

He didn’t turn around, looking down the street where the girl had disappeared. “What?”

He felt Lafitte coming up beside him, the sweep of his black cane sending the dust swirling in a wild dance. “Something the matter?”

“Nah,” Teach said, even as he couldn’t shake the sensation that had grabbed hold of him. Like an itch that refused to be scratched, he couldn’t put his finger on what had prompted it, or why the kid had made him pause.

He glanced at the harbour behind them, and the molten gold of the water where the sun touched the horizon. They'd stayed longer than he'd planned, but then they did make damn good pies.

At Lafitte’s curious look, he shook his head. “Just had a weird feeling. Don't worry about it.”

Lafitte hummed, “If you say so.”

Teach just grinned, although it still wouldn’t let him go; the eerie sensation that he’d missed something.

Ah, well. It probably wasn’t anything important. What would a little kid remind him of, anyway?

 

—

 

It was late in the afternoon on a quiet sea when Shanks finally knocked on the door to his quarters.

He waited, observing her presence, and listening to the quiet movements within, her soft footfalls across the planks as she crossed his cabin, before the door opened to reveal Makino.

Her eyes lifted to his, along with the demure tilt of her chin, and, "Captain," she said, in a way that sounded more like a challenge than a greeting, and despite the way his heart clenched at the familiar address, Shanks didn't let it touch his smile, as he took her in.

She’d changed out of her shift and his cloak, and was dressed in her clothes from the day before, the snug grey dress with the split skirts over her trousers, and the leather boots laced to the middle of her thighs. But she’d opted out of her fighting leathers, which felt significant, given her reaction to Mihawk’s arrival earlier.

The modest cut revealed none of the things her wonderfully soaked shift had that morning, baring her tiny, perfect shape as he'd forgotten it, and the new, lithe muscles he'd glimpsed and didn't think he could ever forget now that he'd seen them, the lovely truth of them burned into his memory like the image of her in the storm, her long hair unbound and her shift clinging to her body like sea foam.

His gaze lingered on the tight sleeves of the pale yellow underdress, and the embroidered cuffs where they cinched around her middle fingers. Delicately slit along her upper arms, they bared the freckles there, pale like the fawn’s spots dotting the bridge of her pert nose. And he saw again the wide, crescent scar on her shoulder where it peeked out from beneath the sheer fabric, but curbed the urge to ask, although that was a familiar exercise now, keeping himself from asking about everything he wanted to know.

But he wouldn’t force her to tell him her story any more than he’d force his own on her, or himself, even if it took everything to keep himself from seeking her out constantly. He wanted to talk to her, to touch her more than anything, remembering painfully the seconds he'd gotten to hold her on deck that morning, and didn’t think he’d ever known a longing so fierce, even searching for her all those years. But it was harder, having her within reach, wanting so desperately to touch her but forced to have her at arm's length.

She was barely that now, so close he could feel the gentle warmth of her small body, although her posture told him in plain terms to keep his distance.

She didn’t step out of the way to allow him inside, and Shanks didn’t request to enter, just remained where he stood, towering above her. She was so adorably short, she had to crane her neck to look up at him, and he watched as she shifted her weight, seeming uncomfortably aware of their considerable difference in height, although demurely pretending not to be.

She’d braided her hair again. It hung over her shoulder in a thick plait, although she’d omitted the red scarf, and for a moment it held his whole attention, the silky texture of it begging his fingers so fiercely, he felt how they shook.

Shanks curled them together, and met her gaze.

“He’s gone?” Makino asked, when he hadn't spoken, although Shanks knew she would have already sensed Mihawk leaving. But the question she was really asking was something else, inquiring if it was for good—or at least for as long as she was aboard.

He nodded. “Said to give his regards.” Not in so many words, but then that was Mihawk.

He saw her shoulders relax a bit, the slender shape of them letting go of some of their tension, although she still kept her guard up between them, as though reluctant to let it down. But then Mihawk had told him of their meeting in Marineford, which explained her wariness. Aside from the directness of his approach, Mihawk’s reputation didn’t exactly do him any favours.

“He knew who I was,” Makino said then. If she wanted it to sound like an accusation this time, she failed, and Shanks had to curb his smile at the small familiarity. For all her reservations, what he’d told Mihawk remained true: she’d always been a good judge of character, and Mihawk was too honest for her to have mistaken his intentions. Still, the meeting had rattled her.

Shanks allowed his smile to soften. “Because I asked him for help.”

She met his gaze, and he wondered what she found in it, but whatever it was, Makino didn’t drop her eyes from his. “To find me?”

“I exhausted the options I had,” he told her, honestly. Whatever else she thought about him, or their past, he didn’t want there to be any confusion regarding that, especially now that they were looking for their daughter.

“He’ll look for her,” Shanks said. His smile tilted, a little chagrin. “The hair, at least, should be a good marker. And he’s good at finding people.” Mihawk’s track record was impeccable, and no targets escaped that focus. And now that Shanks knew for certain that Rowan was somewhere on the sea, it made him hopeful he might find something.

Her face shifted, painfully beautiful and breathtakingly expressive, and there were a myriad of things in her expression now, hurt and wariness and terrible hope, and Shanks couldn’t pin a definite reason to either feeling, and wondered if they weren’t all for the same thing.

Her eyes were big, and vulnerable in a way that was acutely familiar. Doe-brown, like he’d forgotten, and he held them now like he didn’t plan to let go. “And you trust him?”

“Yeah,” Shanks said, without hesitation, and saw that even if she didn’t share the sentiment, she believed him. And it was a small step, but a significant one. Trust wasn’t established in a single day, and love took more time still, but he’d waited ten years. He’d let her take as long as she needed. To have her, and their daughter, he’d give anything. He’d give everything he had, if that’s what it took.

“You don’t trust me,” he said then, and saw the perfect cupid’s bow of her mouth pursing, which was answer enough, but he didn’t let himself be hurt by it, just told her, “That’s okay. I always win people over. It’s what I’m known for."

Then, allowing his smile to crook, in the way he remembered she’d had a hard time resisting, "I've been told it's an infuriating quality, but then people usually only complain in the beginning. I'm such a hoot, by the time I'm done, they've forgotten they were ever annoyed.”

He saw the effect that smile had on her, and oh, she hadn’t changed one bit in that regard since she’d been nineteen.

Makino bristled delicately, and shifted her weight again. “You’re confident.”

He shrugged, and chirped, “Can’t help it. My mother raised me that way. The unrelenting optimism comes from her, too. And the hair.”

He noticed her slight pause at the mention, and the way she tucked the inside of her cheek between her teeth, a small nervous habit that hadn’t changed.

And he’d told her about her mother, but regretted now that he didn’t know more. She’d been adopted, Shanks knew, but hadn’t told her that. He’d seen a picture of Emiko once, stern-faced with white-blonde hair and blue eyes. They couldn’t have been more different, but the way she’d talked about her, that had never mattered to Makino. And a mother was a mother, regardless of blood.

He wondered if she’d ask about herself again, but she didn’t. But Shanks didn’t blame her. It couldn’t be easy, having someone else explain who you’d been, with no way of knowing if they were even telling the truth.

But she _was_ curious, and that gave him hope that she might ask him again, when she got more comfortable. If she did come to trust him with herself, like she had once, she might trust him to tell her the truth, as he knew it. About who she’d been, and about them.

And this was familiar territory, because they’d been here before, although under vastly different circumstances, the shy girl who hadn’t known what to do with them all, least of all Shanks. It had taken her time to warm up to him, and to his crew, but she had. She’d been one of them, and even more than he wanted to remind her of how she’d loved him, Shanks wanted to remind her of _that_. How much she’d meant to them all, to him more than anyone.

He hadn’t actively worked to get her to fall for him back then. It had just happened, but then the same could be said for his own feelings. But even if it hadn’t been a conscious effort from the start, nothing about his actions towards her had been careless. Not the way he’d learned to know her, more intimately than he’d never known anyone else, and even if he didn’t know the woman she’d become, he knew where to start. To learn her again.

He watched Makino restlessly adjust her weight again, and she seemed to be having trouble deciding where to rest her gaze, her eyes directly aligned with his chest, and if she noticed that he'd wilfully omitted an extra button, she was too stubborn to admit to staring at it.

"Was that all?" she asked then, fretting in earnest now, when he did nothing but watch her. He was, he realised, deriving a bit too much delight from her flustered reaction, but then he honestly couldn't help himself.

“I’ll be a little while before we reach Paradise,” Shanks said, making sure to keep his tone mild and companionable—and saw her brows knitting with rightful suspicion. “We’re going through Fishman Island, so there’s a few things we need to do first. And we don’t know yet where we’ll go from there, but I thought we’d make the most of the time you’re here.”  _With me_ , he didn’t say, but allowed her to hear it, and everything it implied.

He saw from her deepening frown that she’d caught it, and that she wasn’t following where he was going. And smiling, he added, although this time with a firm note of command that made her jump, “We start tomorrow. If I’m right, you’ll be up with the sun. I’ll be expecting you out on deck bright and early.”

Her frown vanished, replaced by surprise—and a curiosity he knew she couldn’t help, as her eyes rounded. “Start what?”

Shanks just smiled down at her, tiny and lovely where she stood in the doorway to his quarters, an undeniable intimacy in the small appropriation, his bunk where she slept, and he allowed his slight pause to highlight it, before he said, cheerfully, “Your training.”

Then he turned and left, before he could see the look on her face, and before she had the chance to protest.

 

—

 

He’d searched the port, the whole damn town, but he couldn’t find her anywhere.

Ace was starting to feel his panic in earnest. And he didn’t lose his head easily, was usually able to keep his cool under pressure and think clearly, but as he paced the length of the wharf, it felt like he was unravelling at the seams, and he could barely keep his thoughts on a straight track.

He’d gone to wake her that morning, only to find her gone, with no trace of her anywhere, and only asking the receptionist had confirmed that she hadn’t just wandered out for a stroll.

 _A red-haired kid? Yeah, I saw her run out of here last night_. He’d peered at him suspiciously. _You know, I don’t remember you two checking in._

 _Oh, I get that a lot_ , Ace had been quick to say, with a disarming grin. _I guess I just have one of those forgettable faces._

The receptionist had only watched him. _Right_ , he’d said, but he’d let him leave without further questioning, although Ace doubted he could have kept him if he’d tried.

He’d checked the town, and any place that might have seemed interesting to her; had tried in vain to locate her presence, but hadn’t found even a residual trace. Now he was prowling the length of the harbour, wondering if she might have fallen asleep looking at the ships, but she wasn’t anywhere to be found.

Striker was docked where he’d left it, but then Rowan knew his devil fruit powered it, so she wouldn’t have tried to take it. And then there was the fact that he didn’t have a clue as to why she’d even run off in the first place, and in the middle of the night.

Wait. Unless—

“Shit,” he said, as he came to a sudden halt.

His call with Marco. There’d been a noise in the hallway, but he’d dismissed it at the time. How much had she overheard?

“ _Shit_ ,” he repeated, realising abruptly what it might have sounded like to her. “Oh, you _idiot_.”

But she couldn’t have gotten far. It had only been half a day, and someone must have seen her. She wasn’t exactly subtle with that hair.

Walking along the docks, he asked the dock workers, and the deckhands on the ships preparing to depart. He hadn’t been paying close attention the night before, and couldn’t tell if there were any vessels missing that had been there when they’d arrived.

“She’s ten years old,” Ace described her, holding his hand out to indicate her height. “Tiny little thing, lots of freckles. You’ll have noticed the red hair.”

The sailor he’d approached shook his head, the same reaction they’d all given him. “Sorry. Can’t say I’ve seen anyone like that today.”

Ace expelled a frustrated breath, running a hand through his hair as he swept his gaze across the ships moored along the wharf. If he couldn’t find her, or even sense her, she must have gotten on a ship. It was the only logical explanation, aside from someone straight up grabbing her off the street.

The thought sank into his gut, heavy with old anger and new blame, remembering Makino. And he couldn’t let this happen to her daughter, couldn’t lose her, not now when he’d just found her.

Suddenly, a thought seized him, and, “Do you know where I can find the records of the ships that might have left here, last night or this morning?” he asked the sailor, before he could turn back to his work.

The man nodded, and pointed down the docks. “The harbourmaster keeps the official records. You could ask him.”

Grateful, Ace thanked him, before he made for the harbourmaster’s office, weaving between the crowd that had grown steadily bigger as the shadows had lengthened, sailors unloading their ships while others prepared to depart, and merchants haggling prices over the din, but he barely let the noise touch him, his mind fixed on his new destination, even as he didn’t surrender his whole focus, dividing his awareness between the harbourmaster’s office, and the presence behind him.

Someone was following him. He’d noticed it earlier, but hadn’t let on that he suspected anything, just to see if they’d keep up. Whoever it was, they were too persistent for a pickpocket, and the stillness of the presence made him think of a hunter rather than a thief, although crowded docks were perfect hunting grounds for wily cutpurses.

It might be someone who recognised him. He had a reputation, after all, and a bounty to match it, and even if he hadn’t been to Paradise in a few years, someone might have recognised his face in passing. And he had enemies, same as most pirates on this sea. It was an unfortunate occupational hazard.

But it wasn’t his first time shaking off a bounty hunter, and either way, he had more important business to take care of first.

Keeping his eyes forward, Ace strode casually through the crowd, until he’d arrived at the harbourmaster’s office, and excused himself as he walked through the door, only to find a pair of greying brows quirking in the kindly face of the man seated behind the desk, busy going through a stack of papers. Shipping documents, Ace deduced, from a quick glance.

It wasn’t a very big office, and he seemed to be the only one who used it. It had a desk, and shelves stacked with ledgers and folders. Along the front of the desk sat a nearly organised row of eternal poses, with the names of various ports carved into the wooden frames.

Bowing his head in greeting, he stated his business, inquiring politely about the port records, and which ships had left that morning, carefully omitting to mention his reason for wanting the information, and hoping the man wouldn’t ask too many questions.

The harbourmaster pulled out a heavy ledger, before peering at a long list, recently dated. “This morning, you said?” he asked, flicking his eyes up to Ace, who nodded.

“Early. Before first light.”

He hummed, perusing the open page. “Only one ship was set to depart that early, and that’s Alasdair’s vessel.” He looked up at Ace. “Last port of call is Nanohana, in Alabasta.”

Halfway across Paradise. And it was a risky bet, but she would have gone on that ship, Ace thought. If she was scared enough, she would have grabbed the first opportunity she'd found.

Bowing again, “Thank you," he said. "And I apologise for the inconvenience.”

The harbourmaster waved him off. “No harm, son. This is my job, you know.”

Smiling, Ace waited until he’d turned his back to put the ledger on its shelf, before excusing himself as he took his leave.

The door swung shut behind him as he stepped back into the tumult of the port, and he lifted the eternal pose for Alabasta that he’d swiped on his way out, considering the glass globe where the light caught it, tossing it up, before catching it and tucking it into his pocket as he set off back down the docks to where he’d moored Striker.

He felt the presence from earlier reasserting itself, like it had been waiting while he’d been inside, but he didn’t pause as he weaved between the crowd, slowly increasing his pace from a jog to a run. Whoever they were and whatever business they had with him, he’d shake them as soon as he got on the water.

A new purpose in mind, he didn’t waste time with the mooring, ignoring the curious onlookers observing what he was doing, accustomed to the attention by now, and before anyone could inquire about his raft, he’d jumped inside and fired off, the flames powering the engine sending him shooting forward.

He heard the surprised exclamations rising up behind him, and grinned, hoping whoever had been tailing him were among them. Before him, the sea opened wide, calm where she basked lazily in the sun, allowing him to pass unhindered.

 _Good_ , he thought, the sea air filling his lungs as he breathed in deeply, and tried to collect his thoughts. He didn’t know how many ports were on that ship’s itinerary, but if he could beat it to Nanohana, he had a shot of catching up with Rowan, and to explain himself before she bolted again.

He needed to make good time, but with minimal stops and a hopefully benevolent sea, it shouldn’t take him many days, as long as he conserved his energy. His raft was quicker than a ship, and with a straight course to Alabasta, he should be able to make it there before her. He even had an eternal pose to go by. From what his options could have been, having lost her again with no leads, he’d been in luck.

But as it turned out, that luck didn't last long.

He didn’t sense it in time, and didn’t see the shadow in the water before it was too late, biting off a startled curse just as the creature breached the surface, right under Striker’s tip, and Ace wasn’t given the chance to even think about reclaiming his balance before the whole raft flipped, toppling him over the side and into the water.

The sea rushed in around him, and scrambling, Ace tried to right the raft, or just to grab hold of it, but he felt the strength leaching from his body, the familiar tingling that quickly locked his limbs, leaving them heavy as stone and his hands uncooperative as the sea pulled him down.

It filled his ears and his mouth, choking him, and he couldn’t even swim to the surface, dropping like an anchor through the cold water, which offered no resistance.

Something grabbed hold of his hand then, making him jerk to a halt, and on the brink of unconsciousness now, Ace felt a _pull,_ as though he was being heaved up through the water, before he suddenly resurfaced, gasping and coughing into the open air.

There was movement beyond his periphery, but he was too busy trying to breathe to see what it was, spluttering as he heaved for breath and vomited the water in his lungs, still halfway out of the sea, and unable to move his legs.

Before he could try to gather himself, the hand gripping his shoved him down, his back hitting what felt like metal, and hard enough to jar his head painfully. His chest burned, and he was still coughing up water, but he was out of the sea now, although it took him a full second to understand that he’d been dropped back into his upturned raft, sprawled across the hollow compartment on his ass.

Still reeling from what had happened, it was all he could do to reclaim his breath, let alone try to make sense of what was going on, or who'd saved him, before a long shadow fell across him, and he raised his eyes to the sea serpent that had toppled him.

It wasn’t like any sea king he’d ever seen. It was smaller, lithe with a long, sinuous body, its moon-white scales iridescent, like mother-of-pearl. Two glass-blue eyes stared at him calmly from under the fall of a thick, snowy mane, the strands dripping with seawater where it had emerged from the depths. But what seized and held his attention wasn’t the serpent, but the person standing on its back where it loomed above him.

She was tall, dark-skinned and built of long, sinewy muscle, with a high, black ponytail and sharp lilac eyes, and dripping wet like she’d come up from the sea with the serpent, although Ace couldn’t seem to wrap his head around the possibility, even as there was no other option.

And it took him a second of gawking at her before he noticed the armour she was wearing, the polished leather plate and greaves and the gold bangles wrapping up her arms like serpents, although most noticeable by far was the real, _live_ snake that lay curled around her shoulders, and that bared its fangs at him with a spitting hiss.

“Going somewhere?” the woman asked, in a deep, unamused voice, and with a terrifying calm belied by the storm in her eyes where she beheld him; a quiet rage that sent a chill down his spine, and that made drowning seem suddenly like the better alternative as she said, her hand reaching for the dagger on her hip,

“I’d like to know where.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: UST.


	12. sailor, sea girl, siren song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still catching up on my replies, and I hope you can forgive me for being so slow, but I just want to say how grateful I am for the lovely comments you've left on this fic!

“Memory loss?”

The Kuja warrior observed him with a stone cold expression, not even a hint of emotion betrayed by her hardened features where she stared him down, the impromptu interrogation made explicit by the steel she’d bared, and the snake lounging across her shoulders, its yellow eyes following his every move.

They were on a secluded part of the shore, somewhere on the island he’d just left—or tried to. After she'd dunked him in the sea, Ace had convinced her to let him back on land to explain himself, although so far he wasn’t doing so well, but his timely mention of Makino had at least stopped her from putting her dagger through him, if only to be done with him.

It hadn’t taken him long to make the connection. Kuja warriors didn’t exactly blend with the crowd, and she must have overheard him asking around about Rowan. And even with her outward hostility and repeated threats to sink him, Ace hadn’t been able to believe his own luck, thinking he might finally get some real answers.

She'd told him her name was Kikyo—had brandished it like her dagger, as though they were one and the same. But she'd asked him how he knew Makino, and despite the fact that she didn't trust him for shit, had listened when he'd told her.

But he hadn’t been prepared for what she'd told him, when he’d asked her how Makino had come to be with the Kuja in the first place.

“She doesn’t remember anything?”

Her expression didn’t soften, but there was a loosening in her jaw, even as her posture told him she hadn’t let him off the hook, and wasn’t beyond skewering him if she thought it would be in her best interest.

It wasn’t sympathy, exactly, the thing he found in her eyes. But it hinted at understanding, if a wary one.

“If she does, she has not shared it with me,” she said, although that told Ace all he needed to know. Just the fact that she was there suggested loyalty, but her open aggression as she’d demanded he explain himself spoke of a deeper relation than mere sisters in arms. Whoever this woman was, they were close, and if she didn’t know, it had to be because there was nothing to know.

“She knew her own name, but that seemed to be the extent of it,” she added, although it wasn’t much of a comfort.

Ace wondered what his expression revealed. Too much, probably, but he didn’t know what to do with this information, or what he even felt. He was still trying to wrap his mind around Makino having been with the Kuja for ten years, but _amnesia_?

Kikyo shifted her weight. And whatever she found on his face, it allowed her suspicion to waver, before she’d forcibly reined it back in.

“Now,” she said, straightening her spine as she stared him down. “You will tell me where you were going.”

“I already told you,” Ace said. “I’m trying to find Rowan.”

“She ran from you,” she countered, and with an inflection that somehow managed to make it sound like a question, an explanation, and an accusation all at once. Ace was mildly impressed.

“I know it looks bad,” he began, and tried not to wince when she arched a brow at him, as though to say _oh do you?_ “But it’s not like that.”

“Then what?”

“She overheard something she shouldn’t have.” But realising how _that_ sounded, he was quick to amend, “Or she misinterpreted some things! Well, not really, I wasn’t lying, but the _point_ is that I wasn’t going to hurt her. I was trying to get her back home without her catching on.”

Her look still held suspicion, but the press of her mouth told him he didn’t have to explain why he’d been trying to do it without Rowan noticing.

“She wanted to go to the New World,” Ace said then. “She was pretty determined, so I told her I’d take her, because I wouldn’t have put it past her to try on her own if she could. This way I could keep an eye on her, but I wasn’t planning on actually taking her there. I was trying to buy myself some time to figure out what to do.”

Her unyielding expression remained for a long beat, before she expelled a sigh. “She would be determined,” Kikyo said, with what almost sounded like wry understanding.

“Do you know why she wants to go there so badly?” Ace asked. He hadn’t for a second believed it had anything to do with the Kuja, but he hadn’t been able to coax the truth out of her. He might have just chalked it up to a kid’s thirst for adventure, but her purpose had seemed too single-minded if all she’d wanted was to see the world.

Kikyo regarded him a moment, as though weighing the wisdom of sharing what she knew, before she said, “Red-Hair.”

Ace’s eyes widened. “She knows?”

She pressed her mouth to a firm line. “It would appear so.” Then she said, with obvious difficulty, “Makino does not know the truth, but Rowan might have put the pieces together herself.” She paused, before she asked him, “It is true, then? He is her father.”

Ace nodded. And she said nothing to that, although she didn’t seem surprised, but then the way she’d asked him told him he’d only confirmed her suspicions.

“Where is Makino now?” he asked. Now that he had a direct connection to the Kuja, maybe he could get in touch with her, although the realisation was quick in hitting him, that she had no idea who he was, and he didn’t want to be the stranger calling her, saying he’d lost her daughter.

“With the rest of our crew,” Kikyo said. “They are in the New World, on orders from the Fleet Admiral. I attempted to contact them a few days ago, but the connection was poor, and I was only able to relay a message. But they will have told her. She will know I am looking for Rowan.”

“What do you think she’ll do?” If she was in the New World, returning to Paradise wasn’t just done in a jiff. But if she knew her daughter was missing…

“She would want to search for her,” Kikyo finished his thought, before a frown pulled the corners of her mouth downwards, as though she’d just thought of something. “But they have their orders, and I do not know the state of their current mission. She might be unable to leave."

“Even to look for her kid?”

She met his look, untouched by the disbelief in his voice. “She is Commander. Our tribe is her duty, first and foremost.”

Ace bit back the remark he’d had prepared, his denial swallowed before she’d even finished speaking, replaced with understanding. She didn’t need to tell him what that meant, not about duty, or what being Commander entailed, even if he was currently doing a piss poor job demonstrating his commitment to his own obligations.

But memory loss or no, remembering Makino as he'd known her, and the baby in her belly that she’d loved so fiercely, Ace couldn’t imagine her sitting still, knowing her daughter was missing.

Kikyo met his gaze, her stark expression betrayed by the undercurrent of emotion in her eyes, which told him she knew what Makino would do, even before she said, “I would find her quickly, before she need make that choice.”

“Then let’s team up,” Ace said, and watched her arch a single brow. Even her snake looked dubious, but he didn’t let it deter him. “I want to find her, too,” he told her, and with a defiance that openly dared her to challenge it. “Both of them.”

He saw a reluctant flicker of approval in her eyes, before she quelled it. But she hadn’t shot him down, although Ace would have liked to see her try. She would have to really drown him to stop him.

“What was your initial plan?” she asked him then, with a nod at Striker in the shallows. The serpent she’d been riding had stretched itself out in the water, basking like a cat in the sun, its snowy-white scales glittering like the light scattered across the surface. “You appeared to have one.”

“I think she got on a ship. According to the port records, it was going to Alabasta. I was going to go straight there.”

“No need,” Kikyo said, sheathing her dagger as she strode past him and into the water. She touched her fingers to the neck of the serpent where it arched towards her hand, shaking silver droplets from its thick mane. “You will find her, girl.”

Ace eyed the creature, which had lifted its long neck to look at him. It had an uncannily aware presence for a beast, and those glass-like eyes kept looking at him, as though it understood something he didn’t. It was starting to freak him out. “How?”

Sidestepping his blatant skepticism, “Selene is our oldest Yuda, and our fastest," Kikyo said, although Ace caught the wary look she shot him as the Yuda lowered its head to sniff his hair, nudging his hat off his head, to his surprised protest, before it levelled its gaze straight at him, a flicker of something he almost would have said felt like recognition in its presence that had Ace taking an exaggerated step back.

“What’s gotten into you?” Kikyo murmured, running her hand over its pearly scales. It was still looking at Ace, its head cocked to the side. A long tongue slithered past its fangs, like a laugh. It he didn’t know better, he’d say it looked excited.

He wisely kept his distance. “No offence to your means of transportation, but I’d rather take my chances with the log pose.” For emphasis, he waved it, but Kikyo didn’t even glance at it.

“Selene is a queen among lesser kings,” she said simply, as though that was explanation enough, and with a tone that brooked no opposition. She wasn’t even looking at him. “She knows this sea. And she knows Rowan. She will find her.”

“Sure,” Ace said, dragging out the word. “ _Or_ we could go straight to Alabasta.” When she ignored him, “No?” he asked, as she climbed astride the serpent. “Okay, guess not.”

“This is Kuja business,” Kikyo snapped, tossing her long ponytail over her shoulder as she fixed her eyes on him from her perch. “You are a man. You have no say in the matters of our tribe.”

“I’m not arguing that, but this isn’t just _your_ business,” Ace shot back, although recognised that ‘I knew them first’ sounded a bit too petulant for a rebuttal.

Kikyo narrowed her eyes, challenge written all over her face. “I will allow you to follow,” she said, in that calm, chilling tone, “because I believe you have her best interest at heart, but do not push your luck, or I will demonstrate what our tribe does to men who overstep their bounds.”

Ace was quiet for a beat. Then, “I’m going out on a limb here, but whatever it is, I’m thinking I wouldn’t enjoy it?”

His cheek rewarded him with about as much laughter as he’d expected, which was none.

“Yeah,” he said, to himself. “I didn’t think so.”

Shaking his head, he wondered if all the Kuja were like this. If they were, it was probably a good thing he hadn’t had the chance to try and find the Isle of Women. He doubted they would have welcomed the visit. Although he wondered if Red-Hair would have cared even one bit.

Remembering the man, tired from grieving but still driven by that mindless determination that had survived a decade of looking for her, and the headlines that usually carried his name, Ace didn’t think he would have.

Jumping into Striker, he looked up to find Kikyo watching him, and didn’t know why, but before he could stop himself, called out, “Think you can keep up?” Then again, he did have something of a competitive streak, not to mention a protective one, and the way she kept talking about Makino and Rowan made him want to push back. Makino might be one of the Kuja now, but that didn’t erase what she’d been before, or the people who’d loved her. She wasn’t _theirs_.

The look she shot him was withering, as though she knew what he was thinking, and was prepared to push as hard as he was.

“Remember who toppled you, _boy_ ,” she said, and he was glad to see a spark of competitiveness break through her careful composure. “I tamed my first Yuda while you were still swimming in your mother’s womb.”

Then with a last, defiant glance, she tossed her head, a command called to the beast, which uncoiled itself gracefully. Ace saw its eerie eyes going to him, once again with that unnervingly knowing look, before it dived into the water, carving through the surface like it was nothing but air.

“Didn’t really answer my question,” Ace muttered, and didn’t know what got into him, but he didn’t linger a full second before he’d powered up Striker and shot after her in hot pursuit, funnelling more fire into the engine than he usually would, his gaze fixed on the serpent ahead, and the Kuja warrior on her back.

The wind rushed past his face, so sharp it dragged tears from his eyes, but he didn’t care, suddenly, recklessly inclined to beat her to wherever they were going. He wanted to find Rowan first, not just to explain himself, but to make sure she wasn’t just taken back to the Kuja before he had a chance to talk to her. Going by Kikyo’s less than favourable impression of him, Ace wouldn’t put it past her to try, and if she did, he might lose his only chance of finding them again.

He thought of the Isle of Women—tried to imagine what it was like, a society made up only of women, and if they were raised to fear men, or hate them, or both. And maybe they had their reasons; he’d seen enough of the darkest parts of the sea, the few years he’d been on it, searching. The slavery rings Red-Hair had told him about, some of which Ace had personally helped him root out and take down. He didn’t blame them for brandishing suspicion and steel in face of that world, which had taught them to be hard unless they’d rather be broken. He understood that, and perhaps better than most.

But even trying his hardest, he couldn’t picture Makino among them. Not as he remembered her, so unfailingly gentle, with soft hands that had never held a weapon to hurt—the ones that had taught Ace to be gentler, and kinder, with himself and those around him, and that the world wouldn’t break him for it. She’d taught him there was strength in gentleness, and she’d been the strongest person he’d known. Just how changed was she?

 _Memory loss_ , he thought, although the words still rang hollowly through him, as though refusing to sink in. The missing pieces of the puzzle, although looking at the finished image, he found it distorted, and none of the relief he might have expected at finding the answers to why Makino had remained elusive for so many years. And even having answered one question, a hundred more had sprung up, and he had no idea how to begin answering even the simplest of them, or where to even start.

Although one did stand out, knowing now what he did about Makino, and Rowan.

“What the hell am I going to tell Red-Hair?”

 

—

 

_She was submerged to the waist, the sea around her unmoving, no wild currents or waves to stir the surface where she stood, at a distance from the shore. The dyed skirt of her dress floated up, red as heart’s blood in the green water, as she waded a bit further out, to the delighted giggles of the baby on her hip._

_Rowan kicked her legs, treading the warm water with a happy coo, secure in her arms and the shallows clear and without secrets. A school of tiny fish skittered between her ankles as Makino toed the soft sand, humming as she walked._

_A small, chubby hand lifted, grasping for the wide horizon. “Hello,” she giggled._

_Makino frowned at her, smile small and bemused. “Who are you saying hello to?” she asked, playing along, bouncing her until the giggles rose to louder laughter. She loved her daughter’s laugh. “Is it the sea?”_

_“Big,” Rowan murmured, tucking her head into her neck._

_“It is big,” Makino agreed, watching the horizon. The sea revealed nothing, but then no ships passed through these waters but their own, although she didn’t know if that knowledge offered assurance or just the opposite, wondering if there’d come a day when that would change_ ; _if the world she’d escaped when she’d first come here would one day come back to reclaim her._

_She felt keenly the little weight on her hip, and the tiny feet splashing the water. And she was never prepared for it, the feeling that would often seize her; that fierce, terrifying love, and that came with the knowledge that she would do anything to keep her daughter away from that world._

_But the sea remained calm, demanding nothing, and Rowan's excited babbles continued, as though talking to a voice Makino couldn’t hear. Tucking her nose to her hair, she breathed in the smell of her; that unbearably soft skin, and the warmth of her hair, poppy red and smelling sweetly of flowers and the sea._

_Looking at her, Makino stuck her tongue out playfully, to the baby’s delight, making her nose scrunch up. Tiny, fawn-like freckles dotted the delicate bridge, above her wide, smiling mouth. She didn’t think anything could be as beautiful; as utterly perfect._

_Quiet footfalls stirred the peace of her mind. She’d felt the presence approaching from some ways off, and turned to Kikyo where she stood on the shore now, having emerged from the trees._

_“Hime-sama has sent for you,” she said, as Makino waded out of the surf and onto the beach. “She wishes to oversee your training today.”_

_The baby on her hip was squealing, excited by her arrival, and a glance at Kikyo found her attempt at a professional expression wavering under a barely-suppressed smile when the girl reached a grasping hand towards her._

_“Any particular reason?” Makino asked, shifting her grip on her._

_Kikyo’s face remained blank, although her eyes revealed the barest twinkle of humour as she said, “I suspect she is curious about your improvement.”_

_“I was led to believe she didn’t take special interest.”_

_“You are a special case,” Kikyo retorted, a twinge glib, but it was honestly spoken. “And you are progressing quickly. Rumour has it you will be testing your merit in the battle ring soon. They’ll be lining up to challenge you.”_

_“It’s a little early for me yet,” Makino said, flustered, although felt the flicker of pride at the words._

_“Either way,” Kikyo said, and reached a hand out to the little one that reached for her. “You have caught her interest. She would not honour just anyone in such a way.”_

_“You don’t think_ she’ll _challenge me, do you?” Makino asked, and Kikyo barked a laugh, the sound so earnestly startled, Makino blinked._

_“Hime-sama does not issue challenges,” Kikyo said simply._

_“What about the other way around?”_

_She got a stark shrug for that. “It would be a swift path to a brutal end.” But then she amended, “An exiled member of our tribe may challenge a sitting Empress, but it has not happened in many years, and never while Hime-sama has held the post. It is not a challenge one makes lightly.”_

_Rowan giggled, and leaned her cheek on Makino’s shoulder as little fingers reached up to tug at her anchor. And for a moment, she was seized by the impulse to ask if she could stay a little longer; to play with her baby in the warm water, and not think about training or fighting. Sometimes, it made her tired, and left an unnameable longing in her, to watch her daughter playing, and not think about the world beyond the horizon._

_But forgetting that world didn’t change its existence. And she was doing this for a reason._

_“She is not a patient woman,” Kikyo reminded her, when Makino’s thoughts had drifted to the little girl on her hip, who’d never known anything but kindness in her short, happy life. “Although if anyone could impart on her a smidgen of patience, it would be you.” Her eyes twinkled. “But you did not hear that from me.”_

_Makino pressed a sloppy kiss to the baby’s cheek, receiving an adorable giggle, and nuzzled her soft skin when her daughter leaned over her shoulder to wave at the sea with a happy ‘bye-bye’, as she walked out of the water, and left in the warm surf behind her the longing for a life where she could just stay there, no weapon in her hands, and watch her daughter play._

_“Then I better not keep her waiting.”_

 

—

 

The sun had just come up when she stepped out on deck, bare and lovely like a maiden where she bathed on the lip of the horizon, not a whisper of a cloud in sight, and barely a breeze to stir the balmy air.

It was still a little unnerving, how the sea that had seen the two worst storms in her living memory within the span of a few days could also be _this_ sea, the crystal surface so perfect it beggared belief, and the endless sky like the palest blue silk. Emerging from the deckhouse, Makino had to take a moment just to look at it, breathless at the sight.

Red-Hair was already waiting for her, in his shirtsleeves and with his black cloak discarded. His shirt hung loosely off his broad shoulders, the right sleeve rolled up to strain over his bicep, and he’d only bothered with three buttons, a fact which practically invited her comment, but which Makino delicately ignored. He looked to have washed his hair that morning, a little damp where he’d pulled it back from his brow, and his grey eyes were clear and alert.

She tried to keep her gaze from lingering on any part of him, especially his distractingly sculpted chest, and the dark hair across his rock-hard pectorals.

She saw one flexing cheekily, like a wink, and quickly averted her eyes before she could catch his grin.

His sword seemed the safest option, and she looked at it where it hung by his hip, held up by the red sash he wore. Gryphon, she knew it was called, although she hadn’t seen him use it; had only felt it, that one time during her fight with Hancock.

Her gaze glanced off the faded scarf wrapped around the sheath, but she didn’t ask, or offer him a greeting. She’d brought her bow and quiver, and saw his gaze where it went towards it, before his eyes met hers, the quiet humour in them like a blade drawn.

He had another sword in his hand, Makino saw then. It was smaller than his, and a different type; a wakizashi from the look of it.

She flicked her eyes to his left shoulder, and the knot in the empty shirtsleeve, and before she could stop herself, “Two swords?” she asked, shifting her weight. “You’re even more confident than I thought.”

His grin flashed, caught off guard by her unexpected cheek, and visibly delighted. Makino folded her lips, and kept her arms in a tight cross, as though to ward off his good humour, and the amusement she could feel from his crew who’d gathered around to watch; an entirely unsubtle audience, half of which had brought their breakfast outside with them.

“I can handle both of my swords,” Red-Hair said lightly, although so suggestively it left no doubt, as he lifted the sheathed wakizashi and chirped, “A third, now that might give even me trouble. That’s not saying I wouldn’t try, but that’s not why I brought it.”

Her cheeks flared, and she saw how his eyes twinkled, but then she’d always been so easily flustered, despite Aster and Kikyo’s combined efforts and propensity for unapologetic lewdness.

Someone behind her coughed loudly, which didn’t exactly help the heat in her cheeks, but Makino refused to drop her eyes from his, and tightened the cross of her arms where she stared him down.

For his part, Red-Hair looked altogether too pleased, although the amusement in his eyes tempered a bit as he flipped the sword in his hand. Makino watched the effortless handling, and wondered if he was putting on a show purely to emphasise his cheeky suggestion, but despite herself, couldn’t drag her eyes away from the nimble grace of his big fingers as the scabbard slid along his palm, and he held it out to her, hilt first.

“This is Siren,” he said, as though making a formal introduction, and Makino could do nothing but stare at the offered hilt.

At her perplexed expression, “She’s for you,” Red-Hair explained, undaunted by her surprise. “For the purpose of your training, I thought you could use her. As breathtakingly proficient you are with that bow, I was hoping you’d indulge me, as I am a swordsman. But if she’s not a good fit, I’ll take the arrow.”

Makino hesitated, observing the offering. She’d discarded her shortsword in her fight with Hancock, and even if the bow was her preference, she could hold her own with a sword, and watching it, there was a strange tingling in her fingertips, making her want to reach for it—to check if the lacquer was as smooth as it looked, the fine details begging a closer inspection.

Holding it out, Red-Hair just watched her, as though to see what she would do.

At length, Makino loosened the cross of her arms, to curl her fingers around the hilt, and felt him letting go, yielding the sword.

It was light, the sea-green hilt sitting perfectly in her hand, like it had been made with it in mind, and she couldn’t help the breath that left her, soft and surprised as she touched her fingers to it gently. The scabbard alone suggested an empress’ blade, wrought steel wrapped in black lacquer and deep green copper, with a delicate setting of jade and moonstones, and engravings in the polished hilt and hand guard. A length of silk rope was tied around it, dyed a bright, beautiful red and braided in intricate knots whose meaning eluded her.

She glanced at Red-Hair, in his simple white shirt, and the understated elegance of his own sword. She wondered where he’d gotten this one.

Adjusting her grip on the hilt, she made to draw it from its sheath, and a shiver pebbled her skin at the sound it yielded, the slide of the blade against the inside of the scabbard humming through her, like the first sharp note of a song. The blade within was bare, a simpler beauty hidden within more elaborate trappings, the craftsmanship so exquisite it stole her breath.

The name was an indisputable fit, and for a breathless moment all she did was look at it, transfixed.

“We’ll start with a warm-up,” Red-Hair said then, lifting his hand to Gryphon’s hilt. Makino saw his fingers where they brushed against the scarf, before he slid the blade free of its sheath, the soft _sheek_ not the hauntingly beautiful voice of the sword in her hands, but the calm with which he did it sent a shiver dancing up her spine, as he held her gaze. “A friendly spar. You like those in your tribe, right?”

His eyes hooded, a darker grey, and that mouth crooked in a way that plummeted straight through her stomach, as he swung his blade once, a smooth, humming circle, one finger hooked around the curved handle, before it was back in his hand. “Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Lifting her chin, Makino righted her shoulders, and forced the flutters in her belly to subside as she discarded her bow and quiver, the slit skirts of her wool kirtle brushing her legs as she walked back to stand before him. She curled her fingers tighter around the hilt, finding her grip, her left hand wrapped around the sheath and her arms slack at her sides, testing her balance, centring her focus.

Red-Hair moved first. Striding towards her, he swung his sword in a downwards arc, slicing the air with utter control, and she was so distracted by his footwork, Makino had to remind herself to spring into action, to block him.

Their blades met, the resounding _clang_ of metal and the force behind it racing through her arm and her whole body; a surge of power that washed across the whole deck, to ripple the calm surface of the sea.

Red-Hair’s smile curled, pleased, before he cocked his head, the deliberate gesture as though in a show of letting her go next, and her face had to reveal what she felt about _that_ , because what he did next was laugh, a low chuckle at her outrage.

Then he _moved_.

Three long, controlled strides, each with an accompanying swing of his sword, and each more powerful than the last, forcing her back. His spine was perfectly straight, as though it didn’t require even an ounce of effort, and with her jaw set to stifle a furious shout, Makino sidestepped his fourth swing, countering with a sweep at his head, but Red-Hair only ducked beneath it and around her, and when she spun around he’d already raised his blade to meet her.

His smile flashed along with the steel, before he pulled his arm back and struck again, quicker this time and harder, causing her to stagger back across the planks, her whole arm trembling from the pressure where she gripped the hilt of her sword.

She’d regained her footing within a breath, adjusting her weight as she parried his next swing and _lunged_.

Their swords crossed, and he blocked the swing that followed, and for the one that aimed to slice his shoulder open he angled his body sideways, his shoulder pushed back, right before her blade carved through the space where he’d been standing. The air hummed with the sound; Makino felt it in her whole body.

A single, dark brow arched her way, before he swept his sword up smoothly to counter her next strike, pushing her back. “The Kuja take their sparring very seriously, huh? And here I even put emphasis on _friendly_.”

Makino didn’t answer. Instead, she struck again, her whole weight behind it as she leaped at him like a cat, her arm drawn back and the small length of her blade cleaving the air in a wide, downwards arc, before Red-Hair blocked it, and shifting his grip on the hilt, pushed her sword out of the way, only for her to follow, sliding her blade alongside his, the muscles in her wrist cramping from the strain.

Her breaths were coming faster, adrenaline pumping through her veins, and she should pace herself but she didn’t, a wildness having taken hold of her as she flung herself forward with lightning-fast grace, her sword slicing the air in a series of rapid cuts, aimed for his arm, for his hip, his chest and his shoulder, before she made a sharp swing at his head, which he ducked smoothly, and countered by taking a sweep at her chest.

She felt the pressure, the air cutting her like a blade even as she pushed her chest back, dodging it, and raised her blade to fend him off when he advanced, faster this time.

She’d wondered how he would fight, and how his one arm would factor into things. But seeing it didn’t make it any easier to believe, observing how he moved, that hard, controlled grace, and the heavy swings that didn’t seem possible with the speed behind them. Unhindered by his amputation, and yet somehow like he’d adapted his fighting around it, using speed to make up for the fact that he couldn’t use his free hand to block.

Advancing on her, he swung his blade in a wide arc, sending her heavy braid whipping against her back as she ducked, slipping behind him, although he'd already turned, and she'd just barely had time to raise her sword to meet him, her knees buckling under the weight of the blow even with her own armament channelled into her blade.

He was so much bigger than her, towering above her both in height and build, and had the advantage of raw strength. Makino felt it, every blow jolting through her body, and saw the distracting tautness of his muscles where they flexed, like steel under his skin, his whole body a weapon, but then it hadn’t been merely his skills with the sword that had earned him his reputation.

But she was small, and quick, and if there was one thing she had experience with, it was fighting opponents bigger than her. And if she couldn’t beat him with strength, she would just have to be quicker.

She did a feint, and another, and sidestepping him, Makino ducked under his arm, appearing behind him, although he’d angled his sword to block her when she swung at his back, but she didn’t cease her assault, dancing around him, her steps so light she barely touched the planks, and forcing him to turn, to follow her lead, if only to block her. It was taking him effort to keep up with her, although his delight only seemed to grow, and he responded by matching her speed, and every time she tried to land another hit he was there to meet her.

She heard the warm rumble of his laughter as they moved across the deck, their swords in a ceaseless dance, every single one of her swings and jabs countered, before he sidestepped her, frustratingly agile, although she’d already foreseen what he would do, and sliced her sword sharply to the side, only for him to parry it.

Disbelief jumped in her chest, and she set her jaw before it could escape her vocally, and responded with a flurry of blows, her body seeming to act of its own accord as she withdrew within herself, seeing with other eyes.

The dainty blade answered her commands effortlessly, her other hand wrapped around the scabbard, taking turns of slashing and parrying his counters, and so fast she didn't have time to think between actions, following her split-second instincts without hesitating, her observation guiding her, but where it usually gave her some advantage over her opponents, predicting their future actions, Red-Hair proved a tougher adversary than she’d ever faced—as though he, too, could see that far, or further still, and sought to be one step ahead of her. With her second sight, Makino saw him feigning left, but when she moved to intercept him, he did the opposite, and countered her counter like he’d seen it coming.

Red-Hair swung his blade towards her, and she ducked, first down, then to the side, the hilt of her sword dancing across her knuckles as she flipped her grip and struck his wrist with the pommel, knocking his sword out of the way, and heard a _whooping_ cheer from somewhere on the forecastle deck. But Makino didn't pay attention to their audience, even as she felt them all, his whole crew having gathered around to watch, some sitting on the balusters, others having climbed up on the rigging to get a better look.

It felt like the battle ring, a hundred gazes watching her, but she didn’t quail under the attention. They didn’t own her, and even if they owned part of a past she couldn’t recall, the woman they watched now didn’t belong to them, or to Red-Hair; was wholly, unquestionably her own.

Flipping herself backwards in a clean somersault, Makino landed on the railing, right between two of the pirates sitting there and startling one of them into nearly toppling back over the side, but she'd barely touched down before she'd launched herself forward again, twisting her body mid-air and using the small advantage of a higher ground to aid her as she met him, the sound of their swords clashing so loud it rang across the whole ship.

He shoved her off him, before taking another swing at her. Makino bent backwards to duck it, dropping down on the deck and rocking back, before using her momentum to jump back on her feet, to a roaring response from the watching crowd.

Tossing her scabbard in the air, she lifted her sword to catch it with the tip, the sheath sliding onto it as she turned, and in a seamless motion, _ripped_ it back out, the responding sound of metal singing against metal so loud, she saw Red-Hair wince, and felt her grin where it split her face, even as he'd raised his blade to block her.

Their swords were crossed between them, their bodies so close they were almost touching, and she held his gaze across the sharpened steel where he loomed above her. Her chest was heaving, rattling with her breaths, and even Red-Hair looked short of breath, although his grin remained, like it had come to stay.

A gleam in his eyes then—Makino caught it right before he _vanished_ , and her heart stuttered when he was suddenly behind her, the whole length of him flush against her back, and she spun around, her heavy braid flying—

The tip of his sword sliced through the tie holding it together. And she might have thought it was an accident if it hadn’t been for the unmistakeable precision behind the action, so sharp he didn’t slice through even a single strand of her hair, and she realised with a start that he’d done it intentionally.

Her braid unravelled, the whole, intricate knot she’d weaved in the dawnlight with quick, practiced fingers, all of it coming loose as it spilled around her shoulders and down her back. Unbound, it hung almost past her knees.

For a disbelieving second, Makino just gaped at him, and the boyishly _pleased_ look on his face, and didn't know if she was flustered or outraged but it shoved her forward with a _shout_ , and when she struck it was so fast she saw his brows jumping up, but he countered her blow with his sword at the last second.

Her long hair flew around her, smooth as water where it wrapped around her body, but Makino didn’t let it distract her. She was on the offensive now, barely a breath between strikes, each one delivered with deadly speed and armament as she pushed him back towards the forecastle deck, before she ducked down, her left arm extended—

She _struck_ his right knee with the scabbard, so hard it buckled beneath him, forcing him to catch himself on the deck with it, and heard his startled oath as Red-Hair spat it out, and in the second it happened, Makino swung her sword at his neck.

He stopped it, his own raised so fast she hadn’t even seen him move, and halted her blade before it could slice open his jugular. She'd known he would, but then she'd had a different motive for doing it.

Siren's naked length was pressed against his throat, the wicked edge grazing the black scruff of his beard over his Adam’s apple, and angling it, Makino forced his chin up so he could meet her eyes, their gazes nearly level now with him on one knee. She was standing so close her thigh brushed his hand where he'd raised it between them, his fingers wrapped around Gryphon's hilt. Her hair spilled around her, a dark curtain.

Her breath shivered in her chest as his eyes seized hers, the heat behind the look so intense that for a split second, it felt as though he was the one holding a blade to her throat.

Then his grin crooked, and, “You know,” Red-Hair rumbled. Makino saw his throat moving, unheeding of the blade pressed against it. His voice had a new pitch, deeper than she’d ever heard it, as he flicked his gaze down to her sword, before lifting it back to hers. “I could use a shave, now that you’re offering.”

Her cheeks coloured hotly, and the second she reacted, he’d forced her sword back and pushed to his feet, grinning as he evaded her next swing, infuriatingly graceful.

“Should I take that as a ‘no’ to the shave?”

She didn’t answer, just struck out with a shout, his laugher chasing after her as he did, across the deck and between the masts. He was doubling down on his advances, not taunting her but egging her on, if only by being himself.

And she forgot to be careful, to maintain a professional distance, for her own sake. But she couldn’t help it, relishing in the dance of their blades, and their breathless dynamic as they moved together. And it didn’t make her forget what was at stake; instead, for the first time since coming aboard, she felt like she could bear it. It was relief, being allowed to finally let it _out_ , all the frustration and helplessness that had built up, being exiled, being on his ship, not knowing if Rowan was safe and being unable to help her. It was finally given release.

And she was, Makino realised suddenly, having _fun_.

But then he made it so easy, made it so enjoyable, his grin remaining, delighting in everything she did, predicting her moves and countering them, each time a little more creatively, forcing her to constantly rethink her strategy, to look for new ways to catch him off guard, her thoughts running faster than her body could keep up, trying to get ahead of him. It was a clash of observation haki as much as their blades, and she _loved_ it. No one on Amazon Lily had been able to best her haki like this.

She ducked around the mainmast, circling it as she turned her whole body, and he was there to meet her with his sword, and there again when she spun back, and she was light and nimble, but even with his body a solid powerhouse of muscle, Red-Hair matched her speed and nimbleness.

Her moves grew bolder, exaggerated acrobatics that had no purpose beyond delighting the crowd. And she didn’t usually fight this way, didn’t _show off_ like this, a more practical fighter than most, but she couldn’t help herself, watching his grin growing progressively wider as she danced around him, each move more ridiculous than the last, daring him to match them, _wanting_ him to.

And he did, if not with her whole repertoire of back-bending vaults, but the way he twisted his whole body to evade her was an art in itself. She couldn’t land even a single hit.

She struck, the blade in her hand singing where it connected with his, before she stepped to the side, shifting her weight onto her right foot as she did, and without pausing for breath, launched herself back in reverse in an aerial cartwheel as his sword swept through the air beneath her, but he’d flipped the blade before it could cut through her hair.

She landed nimbly, a split second before she was on him again, and saw the challenge glinting in his eyes, but he was too quick for her observation to keep up, and she couldn't predict what he was about to do.

She swept her blade towards him, but this time instead of parrying it, he jumped, flipping his body through the air in a cartwheel to mimic the one she’d just done, before landing on his feet, graceful to the point where her breath stuttered, and caught the next swing of her blade before he’d even straightened back up.

“Watch your back, Boss!” someone called from the watching crowd, to loud hoots of approval.

“Look at him, showing off!”

“Fucking hell,” Red-Hair laughed, sounding winded as he parried her follow-up. “I haven’t done that in a while. _Oof_ , I’ll regret that tomorrow.”

Seizing the opportunity, Makino lashed out, first with her sword, and then with the scabbard in quick succession. It connected with his knuckles, but when she thought she’d knocked his sword out of his hand, Red-Hair only twisted his fingers and caught the curved handle, before twirling it once and delivering a blow so forceful, it nearly caused her to drop her blade.

Readjusted her grip, she met his next strike, her sword and sheath crossed now, like a shield to hold off his assault, the muscles in her arms cramping painfully when his blade struck it, pushing her down where he leaned over her, putting his weight behind it as he forced her to bend, even as she dug her heels into the planks.

She watched as his grin stretched along his mouth where he towered above her, nearly hip to hip. He was so close she felt all of him, the whole, solid length of his large frame, and the heat coming off his body, his naked chest barely an inch from where their swords crossed. Her knuckles brushed his abdomen, the taut muscles beneath flexing, and she felt the sweat that clung to the dark hair climbing up his torso, but didn't drop her eyes from his.

His breaths sounded heavy, although not nearly as heavy as hers, and she saw the light dancing in his grey eyes; the familiar thrill she recognised from a hundred battle ring matches. The love of the sport, and of facing down a challenger that gave as good as they got.

The corner of his mouth jutted up, pulling at the silver scar bisecting his upper lip through his beard, but when she thought he was about to deliver another devastating blow, he did something else entirely.

Lifting his brows, Red-Hair yielded the pressure he was putting on her, and in the split second it took her to react, he’d turned his blade, and with the blunt edge, swept her feet right out from underneath her.

Her back hit the deck so hard it knocked her breath loose of her chest, along with a startled yelp, the scabbard tumbling from her grip to clatter on the planks, even as she managed to hold onto her sword.

For a stunned second, she was so dazed all she did was stare up at the open sky, before the sharp tip of his blade touched her neck like a kiss, seizing her heart, as Red-Hair’s grinning face appeared above her.

“I should have warned you,” he said. The steel of his sword was cool against the juncture of her neck, pressing into it, right where her pulse throbbed as she gasped for air, but not enough to break the skin. With the sun behind him, his face was mapped with deeper shadows, highlighting his handsome features, hardening them, although there was nothing hard about the width of his cheeky grin. “I like that move. Don’t feel bad, though—no one ever sees it coming. Hawk-Eyes used to _hate_ it. I’ll also say this: you look much more graceful than he ever did, sprawled on your ass like that.”

The gentle pressure on her neck disappeared, and her breath hitched despite herself. Makino heard him sheathe Gryphon, the blade sliding back into its scabbard.

He held out his hand to her then, as though to help her to her feet.

Makino stared at it, the wide, calloused palm, and the veins in his strong forearm where he’d rolled his shirtsleeve up, the thick muscles taut, and dusted with dark hair.

Unbidden, an image flashed before her eyes, of the same hand, the rough palm and strong fingers, and the same grin behind it, his face younger, his features not as hard, and _down on her knees she went, down on her knees, with dirt on her frock and her mouth full of_ —

She shoved to her feet, ignoring his outstretched hand as she staggered forward, feeling like she was about to vomit. Her heart was hammering so fast she couldn’t catch her breath, but blinking her eyes, the image was gone, and the melody, even as the words lingered, as though seared into her brain.

She fought to control her breathing, her hand shaking where she gripped Siren’s hilt, so hard it hurt, and she couldn’t get the words out of her mind, the same line repeating itself, over and over and over, until she felt like she could have screamed, just to silence it.

Turning back to face him found Red-Hair looking at her curiously, although his expression didn’t surrender what he was thinking, or if he suspected that she might have remembered something.

She couldn't tell if the tingling within her was because of the memory or something else, watching Red-Hair where he stood, wholly at ease, and didn't know why she thought of a showman on stage after the final bow. She had to blink her eyes, only to realise that the laughing cheers she'd heard weren't coming from around them. The crowd observed, the murmur of their voices in her periphery, although Makino didn’t need to hear what they were saying to feel their curiosity.

The sensation left her, a little hollow, bringing her back to the deck, and Red-Hair, watching her. His shirt hugged his wide torso, the fabric a little damp, although he otherwise showed few signs of what they'd done, his beard and the thick, black hair on his chest adding to his naturally rugged appearance, and who even looked like _that_ after sparring?

Aside from the sheen of sweat that glistened on his brow, he barely looked touched by the effort, which was three different kinds of infuriating, with her tunic soaked through with sweat under her kirtle, her hair loose, and her chest still heaving with her breaths.

She saw where it drew his gaze, a single, brief glance, before he'd lifted it back to hers.

“All warmed up?” he asked, his expression carefully blank although Makino could have sworn it sounded _teasing_ , but refused to acknowledge how hard her breaths were coming, or the deep flush in her cheeks, which she wouldn’t admit as due to anything but their sparring, and the sun warming the deck.

“Now then,” Red-Hair said, a note of command having slipped into his voice, a serious lilt that deepened the warm timbre, and a palpable change from his earlier delight, which caused a shiver to drag its fingers down her spine. “Ready to take this up a notch?”

Collecting the scabbard she’d dropped, Makino sheathed Siren, but then hesitated, at first meaning to put it away, before changing her mind and tying the sword at her waist with the red silk cord, until it lay across her lower back.

Red-Hair didn’t say anything, merely observed her movements, before she widened her stance and adjusted her weight, her spine straight as she watched him, standing two feet away, his arm slack at his side.

Her heart drummed in her chest, anticipation and a flicker of something she thought might be nervousness, but she quelled it before it could distract her, focusing her whole attention on her opponent.

She’d faced worse. And she wouldn’t cower before him now any more than she would under different circumstances.

Breathing deeply, she quieted her heart, until the void within her had stilled, not a ripple in the surface. Then she gave him a short, firm nod.

Red-Hair didn’t even move a muscle.

The air solidified, became _physical_. The last time he’d used his haki, it had bypassed her. He’d made it do that, had shielded her with it, but this time it slammed against her from all sides.

Her knees hit the deck so hard and so fast, she hadn’t even been given the chance to try and withstand it, and couldn’t suppress her reaction, as her eyes sprung wide and her mouth fell open, gasping for air that wouldn’t come.

She couldn’t breathe, her lungs frozen in her chest, the air heavy where it pushed her down onto the deck, as though with invisible hands. Around her, the ship groaned, and her ears were ringing, a keening sound that seemed to come from deep within her, building as it grew, louder and louder, until it was all she could hear. The whole world thinned, her vision bleeding white at the corners, until she couldn’t perceive anything but the force compelling her to kneel.

And it wasn’t pain, exactly, but the complete lack of control over her own body was worse than if he’d been physically hurting her. Not a single limb would answer to her commands, her whole body compelled to surrender by the sheer force of his presence—the conqueror’s haki that was renowned as the strongest on the sea, and that lived up to its name so thoroughly, she could do nothing but fold under the pressure of that undeniable command, her back curved in obeisance; a mockery of a willingly submissive bow.

It wrapped around her, seeming to be everywhere, filling the air and the void within her, the quiet water around her ankles churning with it, enveloping her whole, until he was all she could feel.

There was something fiercely intimate about it, his presence penetrating her defences, and the sense of him reaching so deep within her, she wondered if there was any way for two people to reach that kind of closeness, filled with him until she couldn’t take any more, gasping from the intrusion, utterly overwhelmed.

Although even as she thought it, she doubted that intimacy was how everyone felt it, but thought rather it had to be them; that something within her, something forgotten and buried deep, responded to him now, wanting to welcome him in.

Makino fought against it, shoved back with everything she had, a furious scream trapped with her breath in her chest when she didn’t succeed in moving a single finger. But where it might have felt as an invasion, a violation of her body and her mind, there was nothing malicious about it, his haki as honest as the way he wielded it, commanding her to submit, but there was no perverse joy behind it, just a challenge, daring her to withstand him. To _try_.

He wasn’t going easy on her, and Makino was startled to realise that she’d thought he would; that she’d expected him to humour her, or to let her think she could defeat him, if only to win her trust.

The feeling that found her had no name—the realisation that he wasn’t taking her lightly, that he wasn’t simply amusing himself, but that he was treating her like a serious opponent, and allowing her to face him like one.

It wasn’t just gratitude, was something much more profound, a fierceness behind it that seized her like his haki had, although she didn’t fight against this.

For the first time since meeting Red-Hair, and learning who he was, Makino liked him.

She tried to focus. She needed to be able to lift herself up, to draw her sword. If she couldn’t even reach him like this, there was no way she would be able to defeat Hancock in the battle ring.

Sweat poured down her temples as she fought to get back on her feet, but she couldn’t lift herself up. She couldn’t even _move_ , trapped where she kneeled before him, her back bent in a sharp, submissive curve. She couldn’t even lift her head to look at him.

Frustration clashed with stubbornness within her, built up a storm from the quiet depths of her will, but she still couldn’t move, couldn’t seem to fight against it and make her body obey her commands at the same time, but couldn’t get anywhere just focusing on one of them. He was too strong, had overpowered her so thoroughly, Makino thought she might have laughed if she could have managed it.

She felt Red-Hair letting go, the pressure of his haki lifting, commanded to yield as easily as he’d brought it forth, and the _release_ was so immense she fell forward, and had to catch herself with her arms so as not to sprawl on her stomach.

Fresh sea air rushed in to fill her lungs as she heaved for breath, her gasps faint and black spots dancing before her eyes as she fought to keep from passing out.

And it might have been humiliating, realising how pathetically unprepared she’d been to face him like this, that even knowing he was Emperor, that he was called the strongest for a _reason_ , she hadn’t been prepared for the truth.

But it wasn’t humiliation she felt, kneeling before him now. It was _exhilaration_. It filled her chest like the air she’d reclaimed, like it was ready to burst at the seams. It felt like she wanted to _laugh,_ and she couldn’t help the breathless chuckle from escaping her, a faint, gasping sound, as she rolled heavily onto her back, needing a moment just to collect herself.

The sky peered down without judgement as she blinked her eyes against the sweat running down her face, and the tears that had leaked, unbidden down her temples. Her grin hurt, it was so wide.

He was _terrifyingly_ powerful. It was a breathtaking thing just to witness, but to face it head on, and to be treated like a worthy opponent…

Lifting her head, Makino pushed shakily to her feet, her knees weak like they’d turned to jelly, and it took everything she had just to control her own limbs and face him standing.

Red-Hair said nothing, just regarded her calmly where he stood. He hadn’t moved a single step, hadn’t even raised a finger, all rugged, masculine grace where he beheld her, but the intimate weight of his eyes was easy to bear now, after his conqueror’s haki.

She still felt him, the remnants of his haki clinging to her body like the cold sweat to her back and her brow. It ran between her breasts, across her stomach, and down her temples to gather on her upper lip where it trembled with her grin. Her whole body shook, coming down from the release like the slow descent from a climax, every inch of her filled with him, and she might have found the comparison mortifying if she hadn’t also been so euphoric.

His crew observed them in stunned silence, but Makino didn't pay them any mind, her whole attention fixed on Red-Hair, the beginnings of a smile having eased his distracting mouth upwards, pulling at the scar bisecting his lip.

And there wasn’t a shred of condescension in his presence or his expression, taking her in where her knees trembled as she fought to stay on her feet before him. There was only that now-familiar delight, and a spark of eagerness, as though he, too, had discovered something he hadn’t expected. Or rather, that he’d gotten exactly what he’d been hoping for.

He didn’t ask her if she wanted a break, although from the look in his eyes, Makino thought he already knew what she’d say, and that he was pleased to know it.

Pride filled her, wild and bright and without shame, and she was still full of so many other feelings, of  _him_ , but the thrill was the strongest, as she wiped her brow and righted her spine, and met his gaze, grinning.

“Again,” Makino said, her voice hoarse, but the feeling in it unmistakeable, shaping her grin wider as she shifted her weight and stared him down. Next time, she’d get on one knee.

Red-Hair only smiled, and obliged.

 

—

 

She was stubborn.

He’d known that already; had been intimately acquainted with that part of her personality, but it was something else, witnessing it manifesting in this way, as she fought back against his haki, spellbindingly tenacious.

They were on their third round, per Makino’s insistence. Shanks knew she hadn’t been prepared for it, the first time, but then few ever were. He sometimes let his haki out to prove a point; usually with those who needed a reminder that the rumours about him weren’t as exaggerated as they appeared. Sometimes it was for show, sometimes to threaten, but those who were unprepared or weak-willed went down for the count, usually within a few seconds in his presence.

But letting his haki out and actively using it were two different things. The first was simply allowing his presence the room it rightfully demanded; the second was a weapon. But then conquering by definition wasn’t a peaceful act, and it hadn’t received its name for nothing. It was a unique sort of will that could wield it, the third and rarest form of haki.

Makino was different. There was none of that will there, in that quiet, unobtrusive presence, which had never sought to forcibly bend the wills of others. But Shanks knew better than to dismiss her as weaker for it. Because it also took a unique sort of will to withstand that kind of force—to be _unbending_.

He hadn’t yielded a lot against Hancock that time, but he did now, holding her in place as she fought to get back on her feet, to reach for her sword. He watched as she struggled, her breath trapped like her slender limbs, and felt a bead of sweat where it ran down his neck.

It went against every instinct in his body to do it, using it against her this way, but necessity drove him; the knowledge that she needed to learn how to withstand it, that Hancock wouldn’t show her mercy a second time. She would have to win; there could be no other outcome of that fight.

But he was still extremely careful, testing her limits, drawing upon every ounce of control he possessed now, making sure he didn’t take it too far, that he didn’t hurt her. He wasn’t doing this to flaunt his strength, even though he’d be lying out of his ass if he said it hadn’t been immensely gratifying to feel her, impressed and not even bothering to hide it. But then she had always been so terribly honest.

And she was struggling, but she would learn. Watching her now, and sensing the stubborn will behind her resistance, refusing to bend even as her body fought to do the same, made Shanks certain of that.

But it was distracting, watching her, so completely exposed, all of her bared to him where she’d before kept so many guards up. Now he could sense her, her defences stripped away, and he felt as he filled her, so utterly it was hard to determine where he ended and she began, and he had to focus to keep a grip on himself, observing her where she kneeled, and feeling her; that quiet will, and the spirit that had always been there, but that had been honed to a sharper blade.

He hadn’t known what to do with it at first, the fact that she’d changed so much; had wondered if his feelings for her would change, too, recognising that she wasn’t the same, and that loving a memory was different than loving a living, breathing person.

But getting to know her again, this part of her, which was only one of many, it had had rather the opposite effect. And the more new things he learned about her—the way she fought, and strategised, and the sparks of her gentle humour coming out, bit by bit—the more he wanted to know, nearly starving with it. He couldn't mourn the girl she’d been, when he couldn't stop marvelling at the woman she’d become.

And maybe it was a bit ironic, that in his attempts at making her fall in love with him, Shanks was the one falling ass over teakettle, all over again.

He felt the subtle shift—a slight pulse, pushing back against the assault, and his brows lifted as Makino _moved_ , shoving herself up on one knee, before she lifted her head, meeting his gaze, triumph splitting her beautiful face, and Shanks couldn’t help the grin.

He let go, and watched her slumping forward, like it had physically released her, before she caught herself with her hands on the planks.

She remained where she sat on her hands and knees, her slender arms stretched out and her fingertips touching, a delicate bow, her curved back heaving with her breaths, and for a brief second the image prompted an entirely inappropriate memory. Shanks forced himself to focus before it could run away with him completely, and hoped she’d keep her gaze from going any lower than his chest.

Her unbound hair spilled around her, black silk and sea glass, the sleek mass of it slightly damp. He imagined running his fingers through it, the sudden need so fierce, it left him short of breath.

She hadn’t thrown her guard back up, and didn’t flinch away from him now when he reached for her, allowing him to feel everything, triumph and delight and wonderful, knee-weakening relief—and another feeling, far more intimate and acutely familiar, but that he quickly retreated from, unwilling to trespass on that part of her, although he couldn’t help his own reaction; the pleasure he felt at recognising her own, and that he was the cause.

And he felt her exhaustion, the bone-tired kind that would knot in her muscles, and made a mental note to ask one of the guys to draw her a bath later.

“I think we’ll call it a day,” he said, and watched Makino lift her head, the action as though it was almost too heavy to hold up, but she met his eyes, thankfully skirting his glaring erection, and the brightness in them uncaring of her physical exhaustion, as he continued, “We’ll step your training up, bit by bit. You need to build a resistance, and that takes time. Throwing you into the deep end before you can swim won’t do you any favours.”

He saw how her fingers trembled as she reached up to wipe her brow. She was still breathing heavily, the soft, whining rasp of her breaths enough that he had to look away, willing himself to think about something else. Seagulls. Sails. Shit, but she was breathtaking.

“So what was that?” Makino asked then.

It took him a moment to register that she’d spoken. “What?”

She was looking at him, the fullness of her eyes pulling him in, framed by her thick lashes. Her cheeks were flushed, a bright, alluring pink.

“If the deep end is your haki at one hundred percent,” Makino said, her voice enticingly breathless, faint in a way that was strikingly erotic, as she asked him, “what percentage would you say that was?”

The whole ship was observing them, rapt, but Shanks let his expression reveal nothing, allowing the question to hang between them a moment, watching her where she sat on her knees, and the stubborn fight that still shone in her dark eyes. And he could have fibbed, or adjusted the truth to give her more hope, but he knew her, and knew that she didn’t quail at challenges, and that as far as hope was concerned, she didn’t need others to offer it to her.

No, the truth wouldn’t defeat her prematurely. Not that heart.

“That,” Shanks said calmly, meeting her eyes, “was about twenty.”

She balked, her whole face reflecting back her disbelief as her eyes sprung wide, and she really did have the most wonderfully expressive face he’d ever known, and before his smile could reveal the full extent of his delight, he was striding past her.

He caught Ben’s smile, and Yasopp’s, along with the rest of his crew, and saw the coins changing hands, gleaming like their grins, which followed him across the deck, although Shanks barely paid them any mind, focused instead on Makino’s presence as she watched him walk away, and the feelings in it that didn’t require him to see her face to know what it looked like.

 

—

 

“Twenty percent of your haki in a concentrated assault would have knocked any one of us unconscious,” Ben murmured, smiling around his cigarette, his voice lowered so that only Shanks would hear as he passed him, headed for the galley.

Shanks felt his painful grin where it split his face, fierce and full of unbearable pride, and thought it was a good thing Makino couldn’t see it, for all it revealed about the heart in his chest, beating like he’d run a mile at a dead sprint.

“I know.”

 

—

 

The ship woke her.

 _Come up_ , said the voice, her eagerness loud in the creaking of her redwood timbers. _Come see_.

She slept in the hold among the cargo, on a canvas sheet strung up between two stacks of crates to create a makeshift hammock. But Rowan didn’t mind. She loved the smells and the sounds of the ship’s belly, and feeling close to the sea beneath. She heard her voice better down here, and had listened as she’d sung her to sleep, like her mama would, the husky, uneven lilt like the water pushing against her hull.

Ceto was asleep in her pocket, and aside from the watcher in the crow’s nest, the captain was the only one on deck when she emerged, having beaten the sun to the punch.

She saw his surprise in the quirk of his brows, as she scampered up to the railing where he was standing, to lean over the side. The sea was dark, frothing where the prow cut it, the spray waking her up as she filled her lungs with the crisp sea air.

“You’re up early, minnow,” Captain Dair remarked. He’d been watching the red horizon, but lifting her head found him observing her now. Rowan grinned, and saw where it drew his eyes, but then her mama had always told her she had a mouth for smiling.

She looked across the water. In the far distance, she could see the barest hint of an island, still untouched by the sun. “That’s our next port?”

Looking up found Alasdair nodding. “You’ll want to step ashore when you get the chance. It’s a long stretch of sea from here to our next stop.”

Grinning, she felt her excitement where it brimmed in her chest. She still had some left of her first payment, and of the gold coin the kind stranger had given her, which had bought her two big slices of pie and with more to spare. And there were enough things to spend them on, although she was considering saving them. She might have to pay for passage from Alabasta, if she could find a ship to take her to Sabaody, unless she could get Captain Alasdair to give her a reference. Maybe he’d even know someone who might take her.

She looked at the island, although it was too far away, and she couldn’t make out a port in the half-dark. They’d stopped at a few ports already, but only two of them long enough for her to go further than the docks, too busy helping unload the ship to explore, even though her feet had itched to see them all, and know them.

She’d go back one day, Rowan decided. One day when she was older and had a ship of her very own, she’d visit them all again, every single island in the world. She’d see the whole sea, both this one and the New World, and all the blues.

Beneath them, the ship sang, in her throaty, slightly rasping voice. Not a pretty one, but Rowan loved it.

_Trouble comes prowling with the blood red dawn, but is she the lion or is she the fawn?_

Leaning her chin on her arms where she’d crossed them on the railing, she observed their progress in silence, no further words exchanged between them as the sun crept slowly over the horizon, the rush of the water the only sound, and the creaking of the ship where she bounded across the waves.

The rest of the crew were up by the time they drew into port, and by then Rowan had already scrubbed ten pots, peeled fifty potatoes for supper and eaten two helpings of porridge (piled generously with the wild honey the cook was pretending they were out of), and was the first off the ship once the gangway was dropped, chased by their laughter as the others made to unload the cargo.

“Don’t get into trouble,” Captain Alasdair called, halting her before she could bolt into the waiting crowd beyond the quay.

Turning, Rowan grinned up at him where he stood on deck, watching her with that knowing, one-eyed gaze. And there was a time not too long ago where she’d relished in her small mischiefs, playing hooky and evading Master Sorrel, but there was something about the chance he’d given her, letting her be part of his crew, that made her want to show him she was deserving of his trust.

And she wasn’t lying when she promised, fiercely earnest, “I won’t!”

 

—

 

“Want me to keep an eye on her?” Touya asked, watching the girl where she disappeared into the throng of people crowding the fish market, the red of her hair swallowed up with the rest of her, a tiny guppy in the reeds.

It was clear he thought it might be necessary, and Alasdair might have agreed. He knew a magnet for trouble when he saw one, but it wasn’t due any malicious intent on her part. There’d been no deceit in that face, and he’d always liked honest people.

There was a stirring in his gut, the kind he sometimes got, but he shook his head, as he told Touya, “No need.” He didn’t look in the direction Rowan had gone, but then this was a respectable port, with a navy base. One eager deckhand on shore leave who wasn’t even old enough to drink shouldn’t pose a threat to the peace.

“She’ll be fine,” he added, as he turned back to oversee the unloading, and Muirgen where she lay moored, and wondered if he was addressing his second officer or someone else entirely, as he said, wryly,

“How much trouble could she get into before noon?”

 

—

 

He was bored.

He told her as much. “I’m bored. Koala. _Koala_.”

She didn’t look up from the newspaper she was pretending to read. “I heard you the first time.”

Sabo slumped in his chair, head tipped back to look up at the awning of the restaurant where they were sitting. “This is my least favourite thing about being undercover.”

This time she flicked a corner of the newspaper down to raise a brow at him, her blue eyes darkened by the brim of her page-boy hat. “Five minutes ago it was the moustache,” she said, and very pointedly didn’t look at it where he’d glued it to his upper lip, although Sabo caught the way her mouth pursed to hold off a smile. That morning when he’d walked out of the bathroom, she’d laughed so hard she’d cried at the sight of it. “And five minutes before that, it was not having a designated budget for reconnaissance lunches.”

“We should,” Sabo said, with a glance at their table, and the stack of empty plates that had steadily filled it while they’d been sitting there. Most were his, which meant the tab would be, too.

Before he could open his mouth, “We’re not running out on the bill,” Koala said, her voice pitched low but her tone cheerful, as though daring him to protest. She’d lowered her eyes to the newspaper again. The cover had a big picture of Red-Hair, wearing an intimidating frown, although the gist of the World Government’s grievance this time was lost on Sabo, but he could appreciate a fellow troublemaker.

He spared another despairing glance at the stack of plates in front of him. Had it grown since he’d looked at it two seconds ago? “ _You_ might not be,” he muttered, and cursed when she kicked him under the table.

“If you bail and leave me to pay, I’ll tell the Big Boss,” Koala shot back primly, still without taking her eyes off the newspaper. “He’ll let me take the lead on the next mission. Then what are you going to do, when I make you leave the top hat at home?”

Sabo put a hand to his heart, and feigned a scandalised gasp. “Not the top hat! It’s my signature. No one would recognise me without it!”

“That’s supposed to be the point of going _undercover_ ,” she said, shaking her head at him. “You’re as subtle as a landslide. It’s only luck that we haven’t been discovered.”

“ _Or_ it’s because I’m good at my job. Did you ever consider that?”

“Your moustache is slipping.”

Reaching up, Sabo readjusted it, although felt as it drooped down on one side. Still, he held his chin high, and met her look with a raised brow.

“You look like a skeevy molester with that thing,” Koala said, and his grin ruined his attempt at a convincing wince.

“That hurts, Koala.”

“And that!” she snapped, before lowering her voice and hissing, “We’re supposed to be using code names. Hack spent a lot of time on our cover stories.”

“Too much time if you ask me,” Sabo said, and at her look, “I’m sorry, but do I look like a Richard to you?”

“I don’t know, sometimes you act like a major di—”

“Oh I have a _what_ now?”

“Act like one. You _act_ like one.”

Grinning, “Okay then, _Penny_ ,” he shot back, and saw her nose wrinkling, before he raised his voice obnoxiously. “What lovely weather we’re having today, dearest.”

She sighed into the newspaper. “You’re overselling it.”

“I do so adore you, my wife. I adore being your husband, and doing married things with you. Like sitting here at this restaurant for two hours straight, being married.”

“Sabo-kun.”

“It’s ‘Dick’, sweetheart. I thought we agreed on that. That I have a huge—”

He felt the heel of her boot perched perilously close to his crotch, and cinched his lips shut as she murmured, with a cheerful smile plastered on her face, although for all her demure threats, he could see she was struggling to hold back from laughing, “I will feed you the newspaper.”

“ _Come on_ ,” Sabo groaned, grinning as he discreetly nudged her foot at a safe distance. “You’re bored, too, I know you are. You like punching things to solve problems. There’s been a distinct lack of punching on this mission so far.”

For a lengthy beat, she just stared at him, before she expelled a breath and admitted, “It’s _so_ boring.”

“I knew it!”

“And you’re right, there’s been _no one_ to punch.”

“It’s criminal,” Sabo agreed, shaking his head. “But on that note, I say we go and find one for you to punch. Right now. There’s bound to be at least one person in this place who has it coming.”

There was a moment where he thought she might actually take him up on it, before she shook her head, and he pouted. “Oh, come on! I know you want to. Instead of sitting here waiting for trouble, let’s go find it! Speed things up a bit. My efficiency is why I’m up for a promotion, you know.”

“Your tendency to go rogue on missions and disregard carefully planned objectives to go with your gut is also the reason why you haven’t gotten that promotion,” Koala reminded him.

“Yet,” Sabo corrected, cheerfully obstinate. Then, “Please? If I have to spend another minute sitting in this chair, my ass will become part of the seat cover. I’ll be a weird growth that never leaves. But hey, they can’t charge me if I never stop eating, right?”

Ignoring him, “We’re supposed to wait here until our target shows up, and then we’re supposed to follow him to his base of operations,” Koala said, as though reciting Inazuma's mission briefing. “So we’re not going to go looking for trouble, we are going to continue sitting here until trouble finds—”

It found them before she’d even reached the end of her sentence, in the shape of something crashing through the canvas roof over their heads, to land straight onto their table, sending all their plates and cutlery scattering, and Sabo falling over the back of his chair with a shout.

There was a flurry of movement, and people screaming, and he looked up in time to catch a pair of wide brown eyes staring at him, and a little kid sprawled on her back across their table.

The fake moustache hanging off his upper lip, holding on for dear life, Sabo gaped at her, still not having fully caught up with what had happened or where she’d even come from.

The gaping hole in the torn awning above their heads let the sun spill onto the terrace, highlighting her hair, such an incredibly bright _red_ , for a moment all he could do was stare at it.

“Hey!”

The owner of the restaurant came charging through the terrace like an angry bull, his livid expression so familiar that for a split second, Sabo thought _he_ was the one in trouble, before the girl scrambled to her feet.

He heard her hiss, as she raised her arm shakily, and his gaze shot towards it in time to catch the fat drops of blood trickling down her wrist where she’d cut herself on the broken glass, but before he could open his mouth to ask if she was okay, she’d turned and bolted, sending more glass scattering as she leaped like a frog over the terrace railing.

Looking to Koala, who’d managed to stay on her feet but who was still holding the newspaper like she wasn’t sure what to do with it, Sabo pushed to his feet.

People had flocked around them, and the owner was muttering about reckless street urchins and issuing apologies to his customers between breaths. As far as their mission was concerned, they’d been cheerfully compromised, but Sabo couldn’t really find it in himself to care.

“She cut herself pretty bad,” he said to Koala, pitching his voice low, although with the volume the irate owner was using, he didn’t really have to. “I’m gonna go see if she’s okay.”

He wasn’t surprised when she said nothing about further compromising their mission, or even about running out on their tab, just nodded, and when he discreetly made to slip away from the chaos, she fell in behind him.

“Can you sense her?” she asked, when they’d moved a safe distance away from the restaurant, and the crowd that had gathered. She tossed the newspaper in a trashcan as they passed.

“Yeah,” Sabo said. He was tracking her passage through the town. He hadn’t felt her coming before she’d fallen through the roof, which was really weird, but between her pain and her distress, it was easy to single her out now.

“She’s stopped,” he said, ducking into a side-street. They’d moved away from the main promenade, and the part of town where the cobbled streets shone and all the houses had a fresh coat of paint; the part facing the harbour, and the people coming in on visiting ships from Mariejois. Here, the streets became steadily narrower, the paint chipping and the bricks crumbling, and the dusty shadows hiding all the things the officers in the navy outpost didn’t want their esteemed visitors to see. It reeked of piss and garbage, the stench like a blanket where it hung with the laundry on the clotheslines over the crooked alleyways, like the clogged arteries of a failing but stubbornly persisting heart.

Sabo had never been able to place why slums like this made him feel so at ease.

They found her at the end of one of the alleys, having hidden herself away behind a confusing network of clotheslines so heavily laden they drooped into the dirt. There were fresh stains of blood on some of the laundry; an incriminating trail of tiny handprints that they followed, until he pushed away the last linen to peer into a dark dead-end.

“Hey,” Sabo called—and realised a moment later that he might have picked a more careful approach when she rounded on them, fear widening her eyes further, as she backed up against the alley wall. She had her right arm cradled to her chest, and the blood had dripped all over her clothes.

Before he could say anything else to salvage the attempt, Koala was striding past him. “Don’t mind him,” she said, and Sabo saw as the girl’s eyes shot towards her. “He doesn’t have a lot of tact, but that’s what I’m here for.” Crouching down at a safe distance, she asked, gentler, “Can I look at your arm?”

The girl looked between them, wary, but she hadn’t run away, although it was a bit of a climb to get onto the roof, and from the way she was cradling her arm, she was hesitant to use it.

Watching her, Sabo thought she couldn’t be more than ten years old, if even that, and despite the blood, her clothes looked new, which made it unlikely that she lived on the street, unless she’d stolen them. That was possible, but she didn’t look dirty enough for a street rat, her cheeks rosied with a flush, and just a few smudges that could come from nothing more than playing. Except that kids playing games didn’t usually come crashing through restaurant roofs.

The way she inspected them was also curious, an awareness in her presence that seemed a little too sharp to be strictly intuitive, as though she was trying to suss them out.

Her eyes lingered on his fake moustache, which probably didn’t earn him any points, before she looked at Koala, who hadn’t moved from where she’d crouched down, not even to touch her. But then she was good at this.

Carefully, the girl held out her arm, and he saw Koala reach to inspect it, tugging off her glove with her teeth before she made to pick out a shard of glass. Fresh blood spilled from the cut, and the girl set her jaw, but didn't make a sound.

Inclining her head towards him, “I need something to stop the bleeding,” Koala said, but Sabo was already loosening his cravat.

The girl tried to pull her arm back. “You’ll get blood on it,” she said, to which Sabo grinned.

“I usually do,” he assured her. “You should see me after I get into bar brawls.”

“You should,” Koala agreed, although a tinge more dry. “It’s a mess.”

Her eyes were wide where she looked between them, then at the cravat where he held it out, before she reluctantly offered up her arm again. Taking it, Sabo wrapped it tightly, hoping it would stop the bleeding, unless she needed stitches, but he didn’t have a field kit on him. He could swing by the safe house, though. The mission was probably shot to tell, anyway.

Working, he observed her, wondering what her story was. A pickpocket, maybe? Or if she did live on the street, maybe she’d been running from the older children. Like the sea, the streets had their own laws, and little kids weren’t exempt from cruelty. It was one of the reasons they fought for what they did. Freedom wasn’t just release from physical shackles, it was being allowed to live in a world where the ruling powers didn’t turn a blind eye to those in need, while exploiting them for free labour in the same breath. Kids like her were picked off the streets every day and sent to the labour camps, without anyone batting an eye. It was easy enough to get away with it, if there was no one to look for them.

“So,” he said conversationally, both in an attempt to distract her from the pain, and to get some answers. He was curious now. “Usually when someone is running as fast as you were, they’re running _from_ something.”

“Sabo-kun,” Koala chided, shooting him a look. “Seriously.”

“What? I’m just curious.”

The girl blinked, her brown eyes going to his. They were unnervingly big. “Your name is Sabo?”

He caught Koala’s look, as though to say _this is why we have code names_ , but he only grinned. “Well it’s not Richard,” he said. “Why?”

She looked at him, and he did wonder then, a little gleeful, if she’d heard about him, before she shook her head. “Nothing,” she mumbled, and Sabo didn’t push. It was probably for the best if the streets didn't start churning with the rumour that the Revolutionary Army was about.

As he finished wrapping her arm, “So why were you using the rooftop route?” he asked her. The cut had stopped bleeding, or at least it wasn’t bleeding through his cravat, although he made a mental note to get her a better bandage. Grinning, he raised his brows at her. “On the lam?”

She folded her lips, and he refrained from pointing out that she wasn’t denying the suggestion. Instead, “The ship I work on docked here,” she explained. “I was just going to look around, but then I thought I saw someone I recognised, so I ran. That’s when I, er, fell on you.” Her cheeks coloured, bright pink under her pale freckles, before she mumbled, “I thought that awning could hold my weight.”

Nodding wisely, “I’ve been there,” Sabo said. “I’m just glad I ripped the fabric and not something else.”

Still smiling so as not to alert her that he had suspicions, he shared a look with Koala. And she wasn’t lying to them, exactly, but that she was sidestepping a big portion of the truth couldn’t be more obvious. Her face practically broadcasted it.

Then, with what he hoped was disarming cheer, “You look a little young to have mortal enemies,” he told her, only half joking. Pirates came younger and younger these days, and he was getting into his share of trouble at her age, and that just within the Revolutionary Army. Gods only knew what he would have been like, left to roam the seas without supervision.

She shook her head, although he couldn’t tell if it was at the part about her being young, or the mortal enemies one. In the shade of the alley, her hair didn’t look as red as it had in the sun, although it still seized the eye, fire-bright where it clung close to the delicate curve of her skull. It also looked sloppily cut, like someone had hastily taken a pair of shears to it.

Glancing up at Koala found her frowning, as though thinking the same thing, although the tight line of her mouth said enough about where her thoughts had gone.

“It’s just someone who’s looking for me,” she told them, as though that was in any way a normal thing to say for a girl who barely looked to be ten years old, unless she was playing hide-and-seek, but Sabo didn’t have to ask her to know that wasn’t the case. And despite the wavering smile she attempted, the careful omission of a reason made him pause. Her eyes were bruised with a fear she was trying to hide, although her bravado did nothing but highlight that she was obviously scared, as she told them quietly, “I ran away from him.”

His smile dropped, as his expression darkened. “And he’s here?” Sabo asked her, and before she could reply, “Point him out to me. I’ll kick his ass.” He pointed to Koala. “Or she will. He won’t be walking after that.”

Mouth agape now, she looked like she didn’t know what to do with that response, but Sabo only forged on. “What does this guy look like?”

Her eyes jumped between them where they crouched, a myriad of thoughts pulling her expression between decisions, showing relief and suspicion, although her gaze kept fleeting to Koala, as though she was more inclined to trust her than him. Sabo didn’t blame her, though; the fake moustache probably did make him look like a perv.

Observing her indecision, his frown deepened. Something about her face struck him as familiar, taking in the big, doe-brown eyes and the wide mouth, but he couldn’t put his finger on where he’d seen them before.

She met his gaze then, a decision made in the tight purse of her mouth, and, “He’s wearing an orange cowboy hat,” she said.

“I already hate this guy,” Sabo muttered.

“And he’s got tattoos. A whole bunch.”

“Classic delinquent,” Sabo agreed, nodding. Koala rolled her eyes, with something that sounded distinctly like _you’re one to talk_.

“He has devil fruit powers,” she said, but despite the fear that widened her eyes, Sabo only smiled, and pointed to Koala.

“Yeah? Well I have her. And she throws a punch like a freight train, so I’d like to see this tattooed cowboy after she’s through with him.”

“Will you stop promising that I’ll make mulch of this guy?” Koala asked.

“Are you seriously telling me you’ll let him get off scot-free?”

“Oh no, I’ll make him hurt,” she retorted demurely. “But I’d like to do the promising, given that these are my fists.”

Sabo just grinned. “I’m just practicing my sales pitch. For my cute if violently inclined wife. Since you were accusing me of overselling the part earlier. I’m not overselling your fists, though. I’ve been punched by you; I know what I’m talking about.”

The girl looked between them, dubious. “You’re married?”

Before Sabo could chime in, Koala cut him off with, “Not for much longer.”

“ _Not for much longer_?” Sabo asked her, aghast, but she just ignored him. “For a fake wife, I’m feeling a lot of genuine hurt.”

“You’ll survive,” she chirped. Rising to her feet, she held out her hand. She didn’t reach for the girl’s, just offered her own, although the subtle gesture didn’t pass him by. “Come on,” she told her gently, and then to Sabo, “Whatever we do, we can at least make sure she gets back to her ship.”

She said nothing about the mission they were supposed to be doing, but Sabo didn’t point it out, already knowing the reason. Because even if they both saw the fear in her eyes, Koala recognised it differently. And so he let her take the lead, this time without complaining—although not without promising, and cheerfully,

“First guy I see wearing an ugly orange cowboy hat, I’m going yeehaw on his ass.”

 

—

 

_She came home, hurting._

_It took effort walking the short distance to her house, her steps small and careful, and each one making her wince, and she had to take a break halfway down the street before she could pick up her feet again._

_The cool shade of her home was a small relief, and entering saw the girl who’d been watching Rowan bowing, before quietly taking her leave. Makino didn’t have the strength to bid her goodbye, listening numbly as the screen door slid shut._

_The baby was asleep. Makino felt her, and with a deep breath, gingerly made her way over to the woven basket where she lay, snug in the dyed blanket Winterberry had made her._ _Kneeling down beside it, she had to bite down to stifle a groan, before sinking down on the mat, her breath gusting from her chest._

 _It hurt walking, and it hurt standing up and it hurt just breathing, aches in muscles she hadn’t even realised she possessed._ _Her hands were chafed raw from her archery practice, and she had so many bruises she couldn’t count them all, and was too tired to try. And she hadn’t believed it would be easy, learning their ways, learning to fight, but she hadn’t been prepared for how rigorous her training would be, and how much it demanded of her, not just to hone her haki, but her body, too._

_Exhausted tears spilled over her cheeks before she’d even realised they were coming, but Makino didn’t stop them, just allowed them to run._

_Rowan made a noise then_ — _the softest little hum as she smacked her lips, but didn’t open her eyes. She looked so new, still, just a few weeks old; so tiny, with her elfin features, and the wonderful softness of her plump little thighs._ _Sometimes she didn’t seem real, as though she couldn’t believe something so perfect could exist._

 _“I carried you inside me,” she murmured, half-believing. She could barely understand it, like she had trouble understanding how her body was made to withstand the things she was putting it through now, but looking at her daughter, she didn’t feel the aches_ — _felt only a fierce, reckless need to get back up early tomorrow and do it again._

_“I’ll protect you,” Makino told her, smoothing her fingers over the soft red down covering her head. She’d sprained two fingers that morning, and the wrapping made it awkward using her hand, but she didn’t even see it, saw only the small shape beneath, fast asleep, her little red mouth pursed delicately._

_“Whatever it takes,” she vowed, a shiver in her voice, but the feeling didn’t scare her now where it pushed up under her skin, fiercer than her hurts._

_“I’ll keep you safe.”_

 

—

 

 _Twenty_ , she thought, dazed where she sat on deck by the stern, having retreated to reclaim her breath, and gather her thoughts.

Red-Hair’s crew were drinking below on the main deck, taking advantage of the good weather to throw a party, but Makino had sought a quiet spot in the cool shade of the palm trees, still reeling from the events of the morning.

The sun had dried the sweat from her clothes, the grey wool kirtle discarded with her high boots, only her pale yellow tunic and snug pants left, the slitted sleeves a fierce welcome in the sea breeze, and her toes bare where she curled them on the soft patch of grass.

The secluded grove was a small marvel; a cheerful improbability and indulgence befitting an Emperor of the sea, and her second favourite place on Red-Hair’s ship after the library belowdecks.

She almost hadn’t believed her eyes at first, the grass fresh and dewy, and the soft swaying of the palm trees in the breeze like a dream. Even so far out at sea and with nothing but horizon on all sides, beneath the trees she could close her eyes and believe she was somewhere else, the warm wind sighing through the leaves, and her unbound hair. She hadn’t bothered braiding it again, the weight a comfort where it hung down her back, spilling over the grass where she sat, listening to the party on the deck below, although she withdrew when she realised just whose voice she was listening for.

Breathing in deeply, she tried to focus on something else, the palm trees and the quiet, although her thoughts kept circling back to the same thing.

Twenty percent of his haki, and all she’d been able to do was get on one knee, but it wasn’t hopelessness she felt at her own struggles, just a wild need to try again and keep trying, until she could stand. Until she could fight him while he was using his haki in full, at hundred percent. He made her want to try, made her want to succeed, and not because he didn’t think she could, but because he _did_. Because when he'd looked at her, there’d been no doubt.

She hadn’t expected that. From a man that powerful, she might have expected him to indulge her, but not to take her seriously, or even want her to succeed, but he did.

Makino thought she knew then, why his men respected him so much.

She’d sensed him approaching, but didn’t feel the same wariness she had the day before, when he’d sought her in the galley after the storm. Instead she raised her eyes to watch Red-Hair coming up the steps to the quarterdeck.

He was carrying a bottle of whiskey, two glasses stacked atop the bottle’s neck, chiming softly as he put it down, before taking a seat on the grass beside her, his back to one of the trunks.

This time, after pouring her a glass, he poured a drink for himself, and when he held it out, Makino nudged her glass against it.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, raising it to his lips. She very deliberately didn’t look at his mouth, or the smile stretched along it when he continued, “Sore? Or is that just me? You’re probably more used to training sessions like this than I am.”

She looked at him from over the rim of her glass, and didn’t know what prompted her to say it, but, “It might also be the eight years you have on me,” Makino said demurely, taking a sip of her drink, and ignored how her heart jumped when he threw his head back with a laugh.

She couldn’t place the look on his face, but saw he hadn’t expected that, and thought he looked delighted—and something far more tender, that she didn’t dare touch. “You’ll be pleased to hear I’m feeling every single one,” Red-Hair said, wryly. His grin curled behind the rim of his glass, leaving her chest light. Makino quickly averted her gaze to her own drink.

“So,” Red-Hair ventured. “Another round tomorrow morning?”

Makino lifted her glass. “I’ll be prepared this time,” she said. “For that move.”

He grinned. “We’ll see.”

The breeze rustled the leaves above their heads, and Makino closed her eyes. She loved the wind, and always forgot just how much. And it was something else, feeling it here, beneath the trees. She’d missed the sound of branches creaking softly, the particular song that came from it, but didn’t know why.

Thinking of singing, she glanced at the sheathed sword, lying beside her discarded kirtle and boots. The sight of it stirred something in her chest, like a longing.

“The sword,” she said, breaking the comfortable silence that had pooled between them, as she nodded to it where it lay. “Where did you get it?”

She couldn’t identify the look on his face, as though he was weighing his options, but, “A shop in Loguetown, years ago,” Red-Hair said. “There was something about her." He looked at her, something curious in his smile as he said, "She caught my eye.”

Averting her eyes from his, Makino looked at the sword, feeling the responding stirring in her fingertips. She curled her hands around her glass, the tightness in them tugging at her sleeves where they fastened around her middle fingers. “I think I know what you mean.”

“Use it, if you want.” When she looked at him, startled, Red-Hair just said, “She suits you.”

She wondered if her face revealed how pleased she was to hear that. But she couldn’t help it, feeling a strange attachment to the blade, which had sat so perfectly in her hand. It had been a thrill, wielding it, and wielding it against him, who’d proved the toughest opponent she’d fought to date. She could only imagine what he must be like, in a no-holds-barred match.

“Where did you learn to fight like that?” she asked. And yesterday, she might have held back from asking, embarrassed by the depth of her own curiosity, and not wanting to give him power over her by revealing it, but looking at Red-Hair now, she couldn’t summon the same worries she’d had, that he’d use it against her.

The smile on his face looked pleased at her show of interest, which only confirmed her judgement. “My old captain was the first to teach me,” he said. “And I picked a _lot_ of fights when I was younger. You’ll improve quickly when you’re constantly getting your ass handed to you by tougher opponents. I never knew when to quit.”

Remembering his cheek, egging her on, and his delight whenever she’d gotten a shot in, “Somehow, I have no trouble imagining that,” Makino said, before she could stop herself, but didn’t regret the remark after she’d spoken it, seeing his answering grin.

He touched the hilt of his sword, running his fingers over the curved handle. She saw where they grazed the scarf there, and wondered. “I guess I’ve always loved the competition," Red-Hair said. "But I never aspired to be the best.”

“It just happened?” Makino asked, a tinge dry, and started at the hooded look he shot her.

“Think I’m the best, do you?”

Realising her mistake, “I didn’t—” But at the sight of his grin, she huffed. “Your reputation precedes you, is what I meant."

“Yeah, I never know what to feel when people say that to me. Sometimes it sounds like a compliment, other times it’s like I’ve personally insulted them by not living up to their expectations. You’d be surprised by how many people think the amputation is just a gimmick until they get a look at me.”

At the mention, her eyes drifted to his knotted shirtsleeve, and she didn’t ask, but saw how his gaze tracked it.

His tempered smile acknowledged her curiosity. “It took time,” he said, answering her unspoken question. “Adapting.” Then with a wry quirk of his lips, “I was left-handed, too. Talk about bad luck.”

“I couldn’t tell,” Makino said, and meant it. She was surprised, hearing him say it. “It must have been difficult.” She remembered vividly her own training, learning from scratch. She wondered what it must have been like for him, re-learning.

Red-Hair shrugged—his left shoulder, and she saw the tied-up shirtsleeve where it shifted with the movement. “It was necessary,” he said simply, tipping his glass back.

There was a serious note in his voice that hadn’t been there a moment ago, but he didn’t elaborate, although the fact that he didn’t look at her when he said it was the most telling fact, and she didn’t need to ask to know that searching for her had had something to do with it.

Her palms felt clammy where they cupped her glass, but this time, she didn’t let herself be cowed by the truth, although didn’t pursue the subject any further down that path, choosing another instead.

She was still so curious, but couldn’t help it. There were so many things about him she didn’t understand, so many impressions that contradicted what she’d previously heard, and believed. And yesterday, she wouldn’t have asked, but emboldened by the day's events, and the quiet privacy of the palm trees, “How did it happen?”

She was glad to see the tension bleed out of his expression, as though the amputation itself was an easier topic, and with a lightness that cheerfully contradicted the words coming out of his mouth, “A sea king bit it off,” Red-Hair said, as he calmly poured himself another drink.

She couldn’t have schooled her expression if she’d been prepared for the words—or stopped her jaw from dropping.

She saw from the way his eyes glittered that he’d gotten the reaction he’d wanted, but there was no untruth in his presence; he’d been entirely in earnest.

“It happened about a year after we met,” he continued, to her surprise. She'd expected him to leave it at that, if only to maintain the suspense. But he seemed to be weighing his words again, as though unsure of how much to share. “Bandits were involved. Insults were thrown—bad ones, and good sake. A waste on all counts. In hindsight, I could have handled the situation better. But I’d make the same choice again if I had to.”

He smiled at her. “Hopefully, I won’t have to again. I think being a swordsman without any arms would be a challenge, even for me. Not that I wouldn’t try, of course.”

He was being deliberately vague, and she didn’t know if it was because of her, or some other reason, and didn’t know if she wanted to ask for a more detailed account, or what had required him to make that choice. She didn’t know what role she'd played in the event, but the way he spoke made her think she had one.

“You were very understanding while I was recovering,” he said then, softer this time, and making her look up in surprise, only to catch his chagrined look behind the rim of his glass. “And that says a lot about you, because I’m a terrible patient. Seriously. Doc gave up trying to keep me in bed, but you didn't.”

It was a careful toeing of the line, as though he was testing how comfortable she was, hearing about her past. But then Makino couldn’t blame him—she hadn’t exactly given the impression that she was eager to know.

She still couldn’t place why she was so reluctant, if it was fear, realising how much she’d changed, or sadness, knowing that even if she learned who she’d been, she’d never reclaim those memories for herself; that they’d only be stories about her, belonging to other people. They wouldn’t be hers, like her past didn’t feel like hers.

Or maybe it was another reason entirely, watching Red-Hair now, and the tender smile that remained on his mouth, as though he was remembering that time—and her.

The shade of the palm trees cast his hair in darker reds, and she’d spent ten years looking at it, combing her daughter’s wild mane, but still found herself surprised by the colour.

His eyes were hooded slightly, considering the drink in his hand, and seizing the opportunity, her own roamed his face, taking in the grooves of the scars over his eye, and his high cheekbones and chiselled features, his brow loose of tension, although she couldn’t read his thoughts from his expression.

They didn’t speak for a spell, sitting there in the cool shade, and she was surprised by how at ease she felt, alone with him. He had such a big presence that even silent, he still made himself known, but it yielded space for her now, which she hadn’t expected.

He’d kicked off his sandals, and sat on the grass with an ease that seemed both incongruous, his position and reputation taken into consideration, and yet wholly in character, from what she’d learned about him.

Makino observed him, in his loose, half-open shirt, the hem carelessly untucked and the right sleeve rolled up past his elbow. For a pirate lord, he certainly didn’t dress the part, although somehow, his rugged appearance and easygoing manners only seemed to underline the regal air he had about him. But then that kind of nobility couldn't be achieved with a shave and a buttoned-up shirt.

Her gaze drifted down his chest again, and the thick hair sweeping across his muscles, black like his beard where it climbed up his throat to cover his cheeks, and which was proving to be a frustratingly persistent distraction. She wondered, a little mortified, if she didn’t have something of a predilection.

She saw that he'd caught her looking, and wasn’t quick enough to lift her eyes to the coconuts above their heads.

Makino wished belatedly that one would fall on her.

“When you fought with Boa Hancock,” Red-Hair said then, pulling her out of her mortified spiral, and Makino was relieved when he didn’t comment on her ogling his chest, although had a feeling he was well aware of her troubles, from the smile that had kindled in his eyes. “It looked like a ritual.”

It was both a question, and it wasn't. And maybe that was why it was so easy for her to share the details she’d been stubbornly hoarding, because even now, he wasn’t demanding her to speak.

“We spar often,” Makino said. “In the battle ring.”

“For fun?”

She shrugged, smiling. “For many reasons. But fun is a big part of it.”

She saw his gaze where it went to the crescent scar on her shoulder. And she’d caught him looking at it often, although he didn’t ask her about it. But then she hadn’t asked him about his scars.

Touching her fingers to it, she felt the thick scar tissue through the slit in her sleeve. “It was a match,” Makino said, remembering. The pain, and passing out, and waking up to Kikyo carrying her off the platform, and Belladonna calmly shoving a piece of leather between her teeth before saying breezily, _the pool says it's bound to be amputated, but let's see if we can't prove them wrong, hm?_

“I didn’t win.” And she didn’t know why, but she added, “Not the first time, anyway.”

There was a pride in his expression she didn’t know what to do with, and clearing her throat, she lowered her gaze to her bare toes in the grass. Red-Hair sat with one knee raised, his other leg stretched out beside her, but didn't touch her, even as she felt the subtle warmth from his skin.

“Does everyone participate?” he asked her then.

Makino smiled. Despite the ache in her heart, thinking of her exile, talking about Amazon Lily loosened something within her, remembering the blue sky roof above the mountain heart, and the deep pools and silver waterfalls hidden amidst the shadows of the forest. The cool marble of the long palace corridors under her bare feet, and the scent of jasmine in Gorgon’s kitchen. As though it only firmed her conviction, knowing what she had to do.

“The ones who are old enough to fight may observe," she said. "It’s a coming of age ritual. No one is required to participate, but most choose to.”

She looked at him, the words perched on her tongue a moment before she let them go. “Rowan keeps trying to sneak in,” she confided, and lowered her gaze at the grin that lit up his whole face, as though he was entirely unsurprised to hear it, and fiercely proud.

“She does, huh?”

“She’s persistent,” Makino said, voice thick, remembering numerous scrapes and bruises earned attempting to scale the arena walls, and a deadpan palace guard apprehending her on her way back from a match, carrying her daughter by the back of her dress, like a wayward kitten. “And brave.” She huffed, and murmured, “Sometimes a little too brave.”

She no longer wondered where she’d gotten that—the fearless spirit that didn’t cower before any obstacle, however big. She felt it now, in Red-Hair’s presence beside her; the same, unwavering heart and determination.

“Well, she’s yours,” Red-Hair said, and Makino looked at him, startled, but there wasn’t a hint of pretence in his presence, or the smile he gave her. “Of course she’s brave.”

She didn’t know how to respond to that, or what to do with the sudden warmth in her chest. She didn’t think she could blame it on the whiskey.

Her limbs felt loose, no tension in them, only a good ache from their sparring. And between the soft shade and the whiskey in her glass, it felt suddenly easy, talking. Although maybe the credit was his, and the way he had about him; the warm, welcoming air that made it so easy to open up, and to forget to be wary. Makino didn’t know, but for once, didn’t overthink it.

“The very first match I attended,” she began, raising her eyes to his with a small smile. “My water broke, halfway through the fight.”

She saw his surprise where it lifted his brows—and the hope that brightened his eyes at the small offering. She had to lower her gaze, unable to look directly at it. But it gave her courage, sharing it with him, because she chose to; a part of herself and her life that he didn’t already know, fiercely private, and hers to give.

She told him about the day, about walking up those endless steps thinking she'd never reach the top, and about not realising what was happening until it was upon her, watching as his smile widened a little more with every detail.

She told him of the birth—of how she'd been taken to the royal palace, and her distress at the fact.

“I was worried about the sheets,” Makino explained, and when he struggled to hold back his laughter, blurted, “They were pure silk! And one of the attending maids quipped that she’d seen public beheadings for lesser offences. I was too high strung to realise she was joking. Who cracks jokes at a time like that?”

He was laughing outright now, the belly-deep kind that sounded like he couldn’t help it, and her smile was similarly helpless, for some reason unduly pleased to have caused that response in him.

Makino shook her head, her smile softening as she said, fiddling with one of her sleeves, “But then they put her in my arms. And Hancock could have announced my execution right there, but I don’t think I would have heard her.”

His mirth having subsided, Red-Hair was watching her intently now, like he was soaking up all the information, not wanting to miss a single word.

“She was so beautiful,” Makino said softly. Then with what sounded like a dry sob, “She had the chubbiest little thighs."

Red-Hair's smile wavered, so painfully affected, Makino almost couldn't bear to look at it. He wasn't asking her now, was just listening to her talk, about her soft, happy baby, who'd refused to sleep through the night, and who hadn't been able to sit still since the moment she'd learned to crawl.

She told him how she'd lie on a blanket on her little terrace, watching her sleep, a long day of training behind her, her body aching but her heart full. And how she'd take her down to the shore, and wade in the surf, and then carry her back home, smelling of sea and sunlight. Those moments with just the two of them were some of her most treasured memories, and ones she’d held on to like she’d lose them.

She'd lived with the fear for years, that she’d forget again. She’d lay awake at night, watching her daughter sleeping, too afraid of falling asleep, in case she woke up without her memories. Her baby that she loved so fiercely, forgotten like everything else.

She didn’t tell Red-Hair that, although her voice sounded a little rough when she said, “I never suspected. That it was you.” She was looking at his hair now where he’d pulled it back from his brow. Even in the shade, the black colour of his beard brought it out. “The clues were there. I just didn’t connect them.”

Confusion furrowed his brow, deepening his scars, and dropping her eyes to her drink, she explained, “There was an article in the paper.” Lifting her gaze, she met his. “About the auction house on Sabaody.”

Red-Hair’s expression didn’t change; didn’t show regret, or anything else, just remained starkly unapologetic.

“You destroyed it,” Makino said.

He held her gaze, and offered no explanation, but then she didn’t need one. She knew why he’d done it. And it hadn’t been a small thing—the repercussions had been severe, attracting the ire of the Celestial Dragons, who’d considered it a mortal offence, and had loudly demanded his execution for years. And a different man might have boasted the deed, to make himself look good, or simply to elevate her impression of him, but Red-Hair did nothing, just allowed his silence to speak for itself.

“Thank you,” she said, simply.

She saw his fingers where they gripped the glass in his hand, his knuckles white, but he didn’t reach out to touch her, or make an attempt to, even as she saw that he wanted to.

A long moment of silence passed, a heavy heartbeat that held a whole lot of things, as she thought of the auction house, and Shakky’s bar; two places that had felt worlds apart, even though they'd been so close.

“I haven’t been back,” Makino said then, looking out across the ocean, and the uninterrupted horizon. They couldn’t see the Red Line yet, which meant they still had some ways left to travel. And then there was the crossing, and Fishman Island. “To Sabaody. I don’t know how I’ll handle going there.”

“You don’t have to get off the ship if you don't want to,” Red-Hair said. “I’ll speak with Shakky.”

Makino shook her head. “No,” she said, firm. “I want to try.” For Rowan, she would do more than try.

She looked at him, saw the traces of anger in his eyes, as though he was remembering, and wondered suddenly what would have happened if he hadn't been too late, but had reached her before she'd gone to Amazon Lily. Would she have gone with him instead? Would she have trusted him?

She stopped herself before she could wander far down that path, to a different kind of future, and where they might be now. The only one that mattered was this one, and where they went from here.

“You know them," Makino said, redirecting her thoughts to a safer subject. "Shakky-san, and Rayleigh.”

Red-Hair nodded. “Rayleigh was first mate on the ship where I was a cabin boy. I've known him most of my life.”

Makino blinked, surprised. She hadn’t expected that, but remembering Rayleigh, found she wasn’t surprised to learn he’d been a pirate. It seemed fitting, somehow.

“He saved me,” she said. And she didn’t know if Red-Hair knew how, if Rayleigh had shared with him the details about the auction, but the look that had entered his eyes told her he knew enough, and what he felt about it. It was the same expression she'd seen in so many newspapers, the one that had made it so easy to believe the rumours, about a ruthless man capable of terrible things.

He didn’t ask her about what she’d been through, and Makino was relieved. She didn’t think she could share that with him, or if she even wanted to. Even with her own tribe, who all knew where she’d come from, the only ones who knew the ugliest details were Kikyo and Hancock. She hadn’t told anyone else about that time, those first, confusing days in the bowels of the slaver, unable to remember anything, and standing on stage before the crowd as the auctioneer riled them into bidding for the child in her belly.

Her breaths sounded shallow, as though she couldn't get enough air, and it was beginning to be too much, talking about Sabaody, like pulling open sloppy stitches. And maybe she needed to talk about it, but she couldn’t. Not now, with Red-Hair, who’d turned the auction house to rubble, just because she’d been in it.

She needed a distraction, and before she could think about what to even say, “Yesterday, you mentioned my mother,” Makino said, meeting his gaze, and nearly flinched away at the quiet fury in his expression, and didn’t have to wonder if her thoughts had showed on her face.

Stubborn, she forged on, “Do I—” but remembering what he’d told her, corrected herself, “ _Did_ I have a father, too?”

He didn't answer immediately, and she held her breath, expecting him to confirm it; that she’d had one, but that he wasn't alive anymore. That she was too late, and that it didn’t matter if she ever remembered her parents; they were both long gone, and forgotten.

But then, “You do,” Red-Hair said, and his deliberate emphasis on the present tense caught her breath, although her heart sank when regret washed over his expression, before he amended, “Well. Sort of.”

Her expression had to convey her confusion, because a sombre smile flitted over his mouth then, before his look softened, and he explained, “He’s the closest thing. Or at least you called him that, once.”

She felt out of breath, and almost didn’t know what to ask, and didn’t care that her voice shook when she did. “Where is he now?” Did he miss her? Had he looked for her?

Something passed over his face. Makino didn’t understand what it meant, and couldn’t guess why he looked like he didn’t know what to say.

“He’s in the navy,” Red-Hair said at length, before he added, “High up, and highly decorated. You’ve probably heard of him.”

Her brows knitted, but she didn’t understand the reason for his expression before he told her heavily, “Monkey D. Garp, although he has a whole list of epithets, depending on which side of the law you’re on.”

Her mind felt curiously blank, and for a second she had to confirm that she’d heard him right, before she blurted, “Garp the _Hero_?”

Red-Hair’s expression revealed no hint that he was joking, and Makino could only gape at him.

She’d heard of him. Of course she had. They spoke his name with reverence in Marineford, but she’d heard of his deeds all the way to Amazon Lily. _Monkey D. Garp_ was the closest thing she had to a father?

Her mind was reeling, trying to wrap itself around what he’d just told her, and everything it suggested. She’d visited Marineford so many times, and they’d never crossed paths. Just on her last visit she’d overheard a conversation saying he’d arrived, and he might have been present on so many other occasions. Had they missed each other every single time?

“I’ve been wondering when I should tell him,” Red-Hair said then, making her look up, wide-eyed. “That I found you.”

Makino stared at him. And she didn’t know what her face revealed; didn’t even know what she was feeling.

“Do you want me to?” he asked her.

She couldn’t summon her voice, but even if she could have, Makino didn’t know if she could have given him an answer. She didn’t even know what to feel, or what it would mean to meet him now, a man she’d only ever heard about through rumours and stories.

Looking at Red-Hair, she couldn’t help but see a pattern, although there was nothing particularly humorous about it, the father of her child, one of the most powerful pirates in the world, and her own almost-father, one of the navy’s most esteemed officers.

And it hit her, then. Garp was _navy._ What would he even think of her now, if all he remembered was a gentle-natured barmaid? And what about Rowan? Even affiliated with the World Government, they were all considered pirates, and no one sang their praises in Marineford. She didn’t even know where Garp stood on the Warlord issue, if he was in support, or indifferent, or if he’d rather see them all hang like criminals.

“I don’t know,” Makino said, and didn’t know if it was in answer to her own question, or his.

Red-Hair’s face didn’t reveal what he thought, and she was almost tempted to ask him, when he said, “He loves you. He would want to know.”

Makino just looked at him. And she might have taken the assurance for what it was, but she couldn’t help but be wary, knowing what she did about the World Government, about their indentured servants, and how they condoned the existence of the auction houses across the Grand Line. The one on Sabaody had been rebuilt after Red-Hair had destroyed it, at the behest of the World Nobles. The navy even had an outpost there, but did nothing to stop it.

Garp was recognised as one of the navy’s heroes, but he was part of the system that had allowed her freedom to be taken from her. And she’d escaped, but how many girls in her position weren’t as lucky? How many men, and children? The World Government would have seen her sold, her daughter ripped from her at birth, only to spend her life in chains, and to live and die at the whims of her masters. She’d seen the brand burned into Hancock’s back. That would have been her.

Her hands shook, disturbing the whiskey in her glass where she cradled it, but she couldn’t stomach another sip.

But she thought then, about the things she had heard, and the rumours that were kinder than those who followed most men in his position; the ones that spoke of an honourable man.

“You can tell him,” she told Red-Hair. “But I don’t—I don’t know if I can, yet.”

“That’s okay,” he said. There was no judgement in his face, only understanding. “I think he’d just be happy to know you’re alive.” He paused, before he added, as though he'd known what she'd been thinking, "He never stopped looking for you. And he might not have torn them down with his bare hands, but a lot of auction houses are out of business because of him."

Makino soaked up the information, staring into the bottom of her glass.

"That young man, on the wanted poster Hawk-Eyes brought," Red-Hair said then. "Luffy. He’s Garp’s grandson.”

She stared at him. “Garp the Hero’s grandson is a pirate?”

His mouth lifted, a little rueful. “He’d probably blame me for that.” Then, under his breath, “But then he’d probably blame me for a lot of things.”

She considered him, and all the pieces he’d given her. A picture was coming together, of an unconventional family, although she didn’t know what to make of it any more than she knew what to make of Red-Hair, and their past together.

“You said I used to take care of him." She couldn’t make herself say the word: surrogate. "Luffy."

He nodded, and she was relieved when he didn’t say it. Instead, his smile softened, as he told her, “He adored you. A lot of people did. It was a small village, but you were loved there.”

She’d seen the smile he wore now before, the few times he'd talked about her. The neatest proprietor he’d ever met. The girl who’d been everything to him. It seemed to belong to her, or at least her memory.

The question was on her tongue again, the one she’d meant to ask him before Hawk-Eyes had interrupted them, about how they’d come to be together. But something held her back from asking now, watching Red-Hair, wearing that tenderly crooked smile, his eyes far away. Seas, and years.

She didn’t know what it was, her sudden unwillingness to hear him talk about them—about that girl. She’d thought it would be easier, feeling detached from her, the person she’d been; that hearing him talk about her would be like hearing him talk about someone else entirely, someone completely unrelated to her. But now, that detachment held her tongue, observing the tenderness in his expression, how it softened his hardened features, and the smile that seemed uniquely hers. For some reason, Makino didn’t want him to talk about her, but couldn’t put her finger on why.

Her stomach knotted painfully, watching the smile on his face, and she wanted suddenly to change the subject, to have him talk about something else, or to say something that would make his gaze return from wherever it had gone in his memory—to talk about Rowan, or their sparring, anything so long that it wasn't about that girl.

A loud cheer rose up from the deck below, and she saw how it drew his gaze, lifting his mouth into a grin. She watched as he downed the remainder of his drink, before rising to his feet, putting down his empty glass, and tried not to fiddle with hers, wondering why she felt disappointed.

“Come on,” Red-Hair said then, drawing her gaze up to his. Not a command, but an offer. “Join the party.”

He didn’t hold out his hand to help her up as he had earlier, but Makino didn’t know if she was relieved that he didn’t, or if she'd hoped he would.

Before she could consider that thought any further, or the flutter in her stomach, she'd shoved it away, and pushed to her feet. Her muscles cramped, the ache in them a cheerful reminder of what she’d put her body through, even as the only physical effort she’d done was spar with him. But fighting back against his conqueror’s haki had taken more strength than she’d anticipated. It felt like she’d pushed through three of her usual training sessions without pausing, and hoped she managed to hide her wince before Red-Hair could see it.

The grass was soft under her bare feet, the breeze pulling at the delicate linen of her tunic, but she didn’t pick up her discarded clothes, or Siren where she lay, silent in her sheath.

Red-Hair remained close as they walked down to the main deck. Not enough to make her uncomfortable, but enough to make a statement, Makino felt, although was too distracted by the fact that she could feel the heat coming off him, and smell him, that same warm and masculine scent that had clung to his cloak.

Upon catching sight of them, his whole crew raised their glasses with a resounding cheer, the booming sound of their excitement so loud, Makino felt it through the planks, and which startled her so much she took an involuntary step back, only to collide with his chest.

She heard his chuckle against her ear, and shivered when a big hand touched her shoulder to steady her, his fingers grazing the crescent scar, and her hair where it fell around her shoulders, even as he’d let it drop a second later. But she felt how the touch lingered, a warm imprint on her skin.

He waited for her to walk down first, as though he wasn’t the captain and by all rights could take the lead if he wished, on his own ship, but Makino was too distracted by her own reactions to deal with everything else that was going on.

“You sounded like you were having fun,” Yasopp said, as he came towards them. He shot a knowing glance at his captain. “Care to let the rest of us in on the joke?”

Red-Hair shared a look with her, gently conspiring, but before he could open his mouth, no doubt with a clever rebuttal, Ben Beckman spoke up, “I just assumed he was the joke. He usually is.”

Laughter followed, but Red-Hair’s grin didn’t budge, seeming familiar with their good-natured teasing. “Oh, you mean am I witty, well-timed, and a constant source of joy and laughter to those around me? Because that does describe me to a tee.”

Makino looked to Ben. “Can he turn anything into a compliment?”

Ben's grin looked startled, like he hadn’t expected her to join in, and she didn’t know why she felt a flicker of gratification when he shook his head, although the eyes meeting hers held a keenness that saw more than he let on, as he looked between her and Red-Hair. “Don’t even start. He’ll never stop.”

“Now that you mention it, I am known for my tenacity, and boundless stamina,” Red-Hair mused, before he slipped her a wink. “I can go all night. And I mean that in every sense.”

She couldn’t suppress her blush, and lowered her gaze before any of them could point it out, especially Red-Hair, although standing so close to him, she couldn’t help but feel his warm amusement at her flustered reaction. He wasn’t hiding anything from her now.

“So when are we getting a follow-up to that show you two put on earlier?” Yasopp asked her, to a holler of agreement from across the deck. He grinned. “We’ve started a pool. Well, pools. There’s one for who’ll win the next round, and another for how many more of those handless cartwheels before Boss’ back gives out.”

“One,” Red-Hair said, dry. “And that’s me being optimistic.” He looked at her, shaking his head. The smile on his face was warm, but when she’d expected teasing, it wasn’t what she got, as he told her honestly, “I’d put my own money on you. I’ve never seen anyone fight the way you do.”

“You were amazing, Makino!”

Her smile as helpless as her blush, Makino looked between the pirates where they’d gathered around them, offering their advice on battle strategy, and complimenting her on her form. They’d grown more confident in speaking to her directly, and although they didn’t reach out to touch her like they had after the storm, there was a marked difference to how careful they’d been before, as though a shift had happened without her realising.

But she liked it. Being among them without constantly looking for the nearest escape route; unarmed, but not even thinking about needing her weapons. Like their captain, they had a way about them that made it easy to let her shoulders down, and to not overthink everything. They made her want to relax; made her feel like she could.

A glass of sparkling liquid was held out to her, and she reached to accept it. “Here you go, Ma-chan!”

Her hand jerked back like she'd burned it, and the glass dropped from her fingers to shatter on the deck.

A second of complete silence followed where she stared at the scattered pieces of glass on the planks, before someone cheered loudly, and the rest of them followed suit, as someone else stepped in to sweep up the broken glass, laughing it off with the assurance that there was more where that came from. Makino barely heard them.

“What’s wrong?” Red-Hair asked, his voice pitched under the growing din. He'd ducked his head towards her ear, although he didn't touch her. “Makino?”

Her blood was rushing in her ears, so loud she wondered if they could all hear it, but, “It's nothing,” Makino said hoarsely, and clenched her hands to hide how they shook, the fabric around her middle fingers pulled taut. Her heart beat heavily, like it had gained an extra pound.

She didn’t know why the endearment had struck her so hard, but couldn’t shake the feeling that had seized her, like she'd once again been given something she had no relation to. Someone else’s endearment, that didn’t belong to her but the girl they remembered. The one who made Red-Hair smile like that. Makino wondered if they were waiting for her. If, by treating her like they had once, they were hoping she would come back.

She felt suddenly out of place—and inexorably heartsick.

She considered for a moment retiring inside, shying under the noise and their good humour, and longing for the peace she’d felt earlier, sitting under the palm trees with Red-Hair.

She felt him stepping closer, although he was still careful not to touch her, but even in the middle of the crowd, she felt the difference, his presence like a shield, making the attention bearable, and she hesitated, her eyes fleeting from the galley door to his.

“Can I get you another drink?” he asked her, as though he’d sensed what she’d been thinking. And the question he was really asking her sounded more like _stay?_

Indecisive, she held his gaze. And she wasn’t blind to what he was doing, the subtle gestures, and the flirting earlier when they’d sparred, although she didn’t know what to feel about it, or about him.

But she didn’t dislike it. And just a day ago she would have denied even the suggestion, but she couldn’t lie, and least of all to herself. She’d enjoyed herself today, had _felt_ like herself, sparring with him, although more than anything, just talking to him. For the first time, it hadn’t felt like a battle, just existing in the same space as him. Letting down her shoulders, and opening up, it had felt like a truce; like they were really in it together, for their daughter.

Maybe she’d regret it. But she couldn’t help it, so desperately tired of being alone, and of keeping her guard up around him. It had been a relief, talking to him without overanalysing his every word and action, assuming the worst.

And there was a part of her that wanted it—to be the centre of his attention, to have his eyes on her, something about him prompting an almost possessive response in her, wanting the admiration he’d offered so easily, and to make him laugh like she had earlier, compelled by a desire she didn’t know if belonged to who she was now, or the part of her she couldn’t remember.

But watching him, and that carefully expectant look in his eyes, as though _he_ wanted her to stay more than anything, Makino couldn’t help the flutter in her stomach, and saw from his smile that he’d seen her answer even before she gave it.

“Okay.”

 

—

 

“Try to sit still for just two more seconds, and—there, all done!”

Reaching up, Rowan felt her hair. It was smooth now, clinging close to her skull, not choppy like it had been when she’d cut it. Grinning up at Koala, “Thank you,” she said.

“She cuts my hair, too,” Sabo confided, matching her grin, and Koala nudged him with her elbow.

“He can’t sit still, either, so I only get to do a little bit at a time. One of these days I'll just shave it all off in his sleep and be done with it." Then she chirped, "He's such a heavy sleeper, he probably wouldn't even notice.”

Sabo gaped at her. "You scare me sometimes, you know that?"

Looking between them as they bickered, laughing, Rowan grinned, suddenly glad she’d run into them and not someone else. When she'd hid in that alley, she’d been worried it had been the restaurant owner who’d come looking for her, or Ace.

They were taking her to the docks. They'd asked her if she'd wanted to come with them to get a better bandage for her arm, but she'd declined, fearing that she'd already spent too long ashore. She'd ask the ship's doctor if he had one once she got aboard.

She listened as they talked, something about leaving their tab unpaid, and didn’t look over her shoulder now. They’d both seemed serious when Sabo had promised to kick the ass of whoever was looking for her, and she felt safe with them. Even Ceto had ceased voicing her suspicions after they’d helped stop the bleeding in her arm.

Rowan looked up at them, walking on either side of her. She didn’t know who they were, or what they did. They didn’t look like pirates or marines, but then it was probably a good thing they weren’t either. But they could fight, or at least they'd given that impression, and Sabo's haki made her think that he was trained in using it.

Her eyes lingered on him, and she saw when he caught her looking, slipping her a wink, before loudly protesting something Koala said.

Ace had said his brother had been named Sabo; the one who’d died. But maybe that was a common male name. Rowan had no idea, but this Sabo was kind, and funny. She didn’t know why he was wearing a fake moustache, but then maybe he couldn’t grow one on his own. A lot of the men she’d seen had beards. Maybe it was a confidence thing.

They'd reached the docks. And she didn’t know how long she’d been gone, but felt a surge of sudden panic, wondering if it had been too long and they’d left without her, when she caught sight of Muirgen, and let out a gasp of relief so loud, she wondered if they heard it.

“That’s your ship?” Sabo asked, observing her where she lay moored by the quay, and Rowan nodded. She could see the crew on deck, although they looked like they were done loading the hold, and were just waiting. Had they waited for her?

She turned to Sabo and Koala. “Sorry for falling on you,” she said. Then with a glance at her bandaged arm, “And for ruining your frilly thing.”

Sabo just grinned, settling into a crouch before her. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got like ten more of those.”

“On him,” Koala interjected, and Sabo spluttered, but didn’t deny it.

Shaking his head, he grinned at her, before Rowan saw his gaze dropping beneath her chin. At first she wondered if she’d gotten blood on her shirt, but then she saw that he was staring at the anchor around her neck.

“Sabo-kun?” Koala asked, and he blinked.

“Huh? Sorry, I got lost in thought.”

He raised his eyes to the ship behind her, and following his gaze, Rowan found Captain Dair observing them where he stood before the gangway.

She saw his gaze where it went to her bandaged arm, but he said nothing, just inclined his chin to the ship behind him, before he turned to step aboard.

Having picked up the silent cue, “Looks like you’re setting sail,” Sabo said, as he straightened, before he pointed a finger at her. “Stay off awnings in the future.”

Rowan grinned. “You, too!”

His laughter chased her as she turned and ran for the gangway, coming aboard just as they were lifting it. Someone hollered for the anchor to be raised, before the crew moved to respond in a familiar routine, ringing the bell by the deckhouse as they made to pull away from the quay.

She felt a nervous flutter in her stomach as she raised her eyes to the captain, but he didn’t berate her for being late, or even ask her what she’d been doing. Instead he turned to the deckhouse, a silent order for her to follow, and she trailed behind him into the galley, and towards one of the long benches. The cook was busy making stew of the potatoes she'd peeled that morning, and raised his ladle with a grin when she entered.

“Our number one swabbie!” he declared, with the rolling laugh that made his belly shake, before he caught sight of her arm. “What’s this? Cut yourself, little lionheart? And here I thought you could peel potatoes in your sleep.”

Rowan grinned, but bit back her cheeky reply when she caught the captain’s look, and shuffled over to the bench where he’d rooted out what looked like a medical kit. When he gestured for her arm, she obediently held it out.

“Let’s have a look,” he said simply, as he began to unwrap the makeshift bandage. He paused a moment on the frilly neckpiece before he discarded it, and turned her arm over to inspect it.

His fingers were calloused, but he wasn’t being hard-handed, just firm and efficient. It reminded her of Master Sorrel when one of the girls got hurt during training. It was okay to cry, she always said. But once you'd finished, you got back up.

“It’s nae that bad,” he said, as he reached for the antiseptic. Rowan winced at the sting, but bit down on her lip to keep him from seeing. “A clean cut.” He flicked his good eye up to meet hers. “What have you been up to, minnow?"

She imagined for a brief second lying, to say it was just a scratch; a little, meaningless accident. She didn’t want him to think she was more trouble than she was worth, or that she needed babysitting.

But then the long day came back, being scared, and hurting herself, and her lip wobbled, and before she could set her jaw and swallow the words, she blurted out the truth instead.

She told him—about Ace, and running away. She left out the obvious bits, about where she’d come from and where she was going, but it poured out of her now, all of it, the words rushed and stumbling over her tongue, but the big hands wrapping her arm didn’t pause or hesitate once.

She told him she’d been perusing the market when she’d caught sight of him—or at least what she’d thought was him. She'd been scared, thinking that he’d found her. Since running away, she’d tried not to think about him, imagining that the sea was so big, he couldn’t possibly find her, but there’d been a moment in that market where she’d panicked. She hadn’t even paused to check if it really was him, or to see if she recognised his presence, had just bolted without even glancing back to see if he was following.

Looking down at her arm as Alasdair bandaged it, she felt suddenly embarrassed for reacting like that. Her mama always told her she was too brave to be sensible, but she hadn’t been brave then. She’d been terrified.

When she’d stopped talking, the silence in the galley seemed so loud it made her squirm in her seat, but Alasdair didn’t seem bothered by it, as he fastened the bandage.

“You’re safe here,” he told her simply. He met her eyes with his one grey. “We may nae look it, but there’s fight in us. And we take care of our own.”

Her throat closed up, recognising the words; the ones they always said back home. And she hadn’t realised how far she'd been from her own, until she’d run from Ace and there’d been no one to run to, her mama miles away.

But she remembered Sabo, and Koala. They’d been kind, and they’d helped her, like Captain Alasdair’s crew, and the big man who’d given her that shiny gold coin for a slice of pie. She hadn’t felt alone then, and she didn't feel scared now, sitting in the warm galley as the ship left the island for the open sea.

Being back aboard was comforting. She loved Muirgen, the way she rocked on the water, and the creak of her timbers. It made her feel safe, and protected, which had surprised her, in the beginning. Back home, the island had never felt big enough, but even if the ship was much smaller, it was different. An island was stationary; it didn’t go anywhere. A ship was constantly moving, never staying still for long. Like her.

“What?” Captain Dair asked, and Rowan blinked, before she realised she must have drifted off into her own thoughts.

She shook her head, embarrassed. “It’s just the ship,” she said. Everyone back home had always found it a little odd that she talked to things, and that she could hear their voices. She didn’t want him to think there was anything wrong with her, but she didn’t want to lie, and so she said, carefully, “She’s singing. Or it sounds like it, anyway.”

“Oh aye?” he mused. For some reason, she thought he liked that. “Well, she would.”

Rowan frowned. “Who?”

He wasn’t smiling; he didn’t really smile, but there was a warmth in his eye when he told her, “The woman she’s made for.” The corner of his mouth jerked up, before it was gone. “She would sing.”

“Sing?”

“Aye,” he said, before adding, wryly, “Terribly.”

She paused, worrying a corner of the bandage, before she ventured carefully, “Were you married?” She thought about Sabo and Koala. She hadn’t really understood what they'd meant about it being fake, but maybe marriage was different here than it was back home.

He seemed to ponder that, before he said, “In a way, I reckon we were. But I was nae a good husband.”

“Did you have a family?”

She couldn’t help her own curiosity, but then she’d always loved the concept. On Amazon Lily, they were a community, but some of the other girls had two mothers, who lived together and loved each other, and there was even Larkspur, who'd left with her mother to be with her father. Her whole childhood, Rowan had wished her own father would come and whisk them away, on a fairy tale ship.

She thought about Red-Hair, and wondered where he was now. If he thought about her, and if he missed her.

“I have a son,” Captain Alasdair said then, when she looked at him, expectant.

“Touya-san?” she asked, and he snorted loudly.

“Och, no.” He didn’t seem insulted, just amused, although there was still that unidentifiable expression on his face when he told her, “I have nae seen him in thirty years. He was just a lad then. He’s a grown man now.”

“Why haven’t you seen him?”

He met her eyes. And she’d been told many times that she asked too many questions without thinking, but he didn’t seem to mind, although Rowan didn’t know what the look on his face meant.

“I made a choice,” he said, simply. “To tell the truth, I do nae think I would have made a better father than I was a husband.”

Frowning, she turned his answer over in her head. He’d chosen not to be a father? Was that even something you could choose?

She stopped herself right before she could ask _didn’t you want him?,_ the words coming to settle deep in her stomach, like a tummy-ache.

She hadn’t thought about it before, had been so firm in her belief that if she only found her father, everything would fall into place. That he’d take her back to Amazon Lily, and her mama would be happy, and they’d be together, but she wondered now if that was what her father had done—that the reason Rowan didn’t know him was because he didn’t want to know _her_. Because he’d made a choice. Was that why her mother didn’t talk about him?

She felt Ceto turning in her pocket, restless. Her silence seemed to answer her question.

“It’ll be supper in a bit,” Captain Alasdair said then, as he rose from the bench, putting away the medical kit. The gauze around her arm was neatly wrapped; she didn’t even feel the sting. “And we’re sailing through the night, so make sure you get some rest.”

She nodded absently, but even tired and with the lulling movements of the ship, with her thoughts being what they were now, Rowan didn’t know if she could.

 

—

 

The sun was going down beyond the harbour as they exited the safe house. There’d been little to wrap up, with their mission bungled, but another team would relieve them, and they’d go back to Baltigo awaiting further orders.

His upper lip chafed, some of the glue still stuck to it, but at least the moustache was gone.

A gloved hand batted his fingers away. “Stop scratching it, or you’ll get a rash,” Koala chided, slipping the folder with her finished mission report into her satchel. She always did things correctly, wrote detailed reports and always submitted them on time, and Sabo felt a pang of regret then, for taking the lead and abandoning their post, and just assuming she'd follow.

“Hey,” he said, making her glance up. “Sorry about earlier.”

She cocked her head, her bemused frown asking him what for, and he nodded to the report she’d stuffed in her bag. “For just running after that girl. I went with my gut again, but it wasn’t fair to you. You did a lot of prep for this gig.”

She huffed, smiling. “Dummy,” Koala said, softly. “She got hurt. I wanted to check on her, too.” She shrugged one shoulder, adjusting her bag. “Sometimes, the little things are more important. And it wasn’t like we accidentally outed ourselves. Our subs can take over tomorrow.”

Sabo's grin softened, as he fell into step beside her, and when he grabbed her bag to carry it, heard her laughing protest, before she surrendered with a shake of her head.

The bars were open along the promenade, live music drifting out into the cool evening air as they walked to the harbour. It wasn’t dark yet, but they were lighting lanterns and putting out signs, every establishment trying their best to cater to the visiting tourists. Sabo spied a Celestial Dragon further down the street, the gleam of their glass helmets always easy to single out from afar, and subtly steered Koala down an adjoining side-street before she could notice, and with what he hoped was a distractingly loud remark about wanting to take a more scenic route to the harbour.

Passing the restaurant where they’d been sitting earlier saw that they’d taken down the ruined awning, but the weather was good, and the terrace had filled up with people. There was no hint of the chaos they’d left that afternoon, but then it had just been an accident, and thankfully out of sight of any Celestial Dragons. They were known to carry out public executions for lesser offences.

But the girl was safe, and on her ship. And so the day hadn’t been a complete waste, after all.

“Hey, that guy,” Sabo said then, remembering. It had been bugging him all day. “Her captain. Did he look familiar to you?”

Koala frowned. “Familiar?”

“Yeah. Something about his face. I feel like I’ve seen it somewhere.”

She pursed her mouth, thoughtful. “I don’t know. I didn’t really get a good look at him.”

He was about to answer when she suddenly grabbed his arm, and, “Look,” Koala said, pointing down the street, and even with the people gathered, it didn’t take Sabo long to realise what she was referring to.

“Orange cowboy hat,” he said, shrugging off the satchel to hand it to her, before he made to stride forward.

“Sabo-kun,” Koala warned, but didn’t stop him as he pushed through the people in front of him, who moved out of the way to let him pass.

“Hey!” he called out, several passersby giving him a wide berth now, no doubt at his aggressive approach. He saw the guy in the hat turning, having realised he was the one being addressed. “Chasing after little kids, are you? I’d say pick on someone your own size. Oh, look. I’m right here. How incredibly convenient.”

The man met his eyes, his brows dipping with a frown. “What?”

“Looking for a girl?” Sabo asked, seizing him up. He was armed, but hadn’t reached for his weapon. She'd also mentioned he had devil fruit powers, and he wondered what kind.

“Girl?” he parroted back. “What the hell kind of question is that? Get off with you, freak.”

A small hand on his arm stopped him from walking forward, and, “He doesn’t have tattoos,” Koala said, and Sabo paused. But she was right—he couldn’t see a single one, even on the generous paunch visible under the hem of his too-tight shirt.

The guy in the orange hat left them, muttering under his breath about the stationed marines not doing a good enough job cleaning the streets of trash, after which Koala had to hold him back from pummelling him for good measure.

About to protest—or to offer to hold him down while she took the first swing—“Wait,” Koala said, stopping him, and when she pointed, Sabo followed her gaze, this time landing on a different man, also wearing an orange hat.

He had tattoos—flowers covering his right arm from wrist to shoulder, and a series of letters down his left bicep. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, and Sabo frowned, noticing the symbol on his back. Unmistakeable, even on this side of the Red Line.

_Whitebeard?_

There was a woman with him. She was taller than he was, with deep brown skin and a long ponytail, but seemed dressed for the same weather, although if she was a pirate, they weren’t affiliated with the same crew. They made an odd pair, the woman in full leather armour, and Sabo saw when she noticed them, the sharp intuition speaking of a proficient observation user as she seized him up, before her lilac eyes flicked to Koala, although this time her fingers strayed to the pommel of the long dagger at her waist.

She said something; Sabo couldn’t hear what it was, but saw as the man beside her turned to follow her gaze. He was his age, he saw then, as he tilted the brim of his hat up to look at him.

And having caught his companion's reaction, Sabo had been prepared to get into a defensive stance, expecting a fight. Itching for it, after a long, mostly uneventful day, and if that was the guy that little girl had been running from, he'd just found a reason to let off some steam.

But he wasn’t prepared for the slack-jawed reaction he got, as the stranger stared him down from across the street, before proceeding to blurt the last thing he expected.

_“Sabo!?”_

 

—

 

It was late when she finally retired, with a heart lighter than it had felt in days, relieved of some of the burdens she’d carried atop it, her belly full of food and whiskey and her body holding the painfully pleasant ache following a hard workout.

Shutting the door, Makino let her shoulders sink with a breath. She hadn’t had a lot to drink, but they served strong stuff, and she felt the buzz as she blinked her eyes heavily, before turning to his cabin, and promptly stopped.

Someone had drawn her a bath.

It had to have been done recently—she could see the steam rising from the water, and felt how her whole body responded, and the moan that rose up from her chest.

Walking towards it, she touched her fingers to the surface, her breath shuddering out at the scalding water, begging her aching limbs. There was a warm, heady scent rising from it. Sandalwood, she thought, or something similar, but it reminded her of Red-Hair, of how his cloak had smelled.

She wondered if it had been on his orders that they’d drawn it, as she made to strip out of her clothes, toeing off her pants and loosening the ties on her sleeves, but just as she made to slip her tunic over her head, there was a knock on the door, making her jump.

She’d been so distracted by the bath, she hadn’t felt him coming, and opening the door to find Red-Hair there, she felt a sudden burst of panic, before his smile warmed, and he nodded to his cabin behind her. “I just need to grab a fresh shirt.”

Her heart eased down from her throat, and swallowing thickly, Makino moved out of the way to let him inside.

His eyes glanced off her, but didn’t linger on the loose ties on her sleeves, or her half-dressed state, and he didn’t comment on the steaming tub in the middle of his quarters as he passed it, headed for the chest shoved against his bunk.

And she felt a pang of regret then, for her own knee-jerk reaction, assuming that was what he’d come there for. He’d treated her with nothing but respect since she’d come aboard his ship, had done nothing to warrant that kind of suspicion, or for her mind to constantly imagine the worst of him.

"Some of the guys were complaining," Red-Hair threw over his shoulder. "Apparently, my natural musk isn't as intoxicating as I'd like to believe. I threatened to make them walk the plank, but they just suggested I do it instead, as I'm apparently the one in need of a bath."

Makino watched him rooting through the chest, before he withdrew a shirt, her eyes drifting to the half-open front of the one he was wearing, entirely in spite of herself. But she was quick to drag her eyes back up when he turned back, shutting the chest.

He made to walk past her to the door, and she didn’t know what came over her, but, “Captain,” she said, before he could leave.

He raised his brows, questioning, and she felt suddenly tongue-tied, looking at him. They were close, no more than an arm's length between them, and she felt keenly how she was dressed, and the suggestion in the steaming bath behind her.

But thinking of the bath, which had to have been his doing, and everything leading up to it, “Thank you,” Makino said. “For today.”

It wasn't said with the stilted formality she'd used, the day she'd first come aboard, and she saw how his smile curved, something unbearably kind in it when he said, “I feel like I should be the one thanking you. I can’t remember the last time I had that much fun sparring.” His smile reached into his eyes, as he told her, “You’re one hell of a fighter. And your observation is the best I’ve ever fought. Gave me a run for my money.”

The admission took her breath, offered by him. And there wasn’t a trace of teasing there, nothing but plain, unadorned honesty, given without pretence. But Makino didn’t know why she should have expected anything else. Not after today.

“Not just for the sparring,” she said. “I know I’ve been—” She stopped, and let her breath go, before she tried again. “It’s been difficult, being here, and I haven’t been a very good guest.”

His look softened. “It’s a lot to take in. And I'd say you've been handling it well, considering." A pause, before he said, "It’s different for us. I can’t pretend to understand what you’re going through, but no one would begrudge you those feelings."

“Still,” Makino said. “You’ve tried to make me feel comfortable, and I'm grateful for that.” Then she said, quietly, “You have good men under your command.” And before she could lose her courage, raised her eyes to his. “And a crew reflects its captain.”

The words hung between them. And it felt suddenly, achingly familiar, but once again, her memory yielded nothing but a fleeting impression that they’d been here before.

Smiling, Red-Hair inclined his head to her, a parting gesture. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, for round two,” he said, as he made to walk past her. In the cool cabin air, his body was a focal point of heat, and she heard how her breath shivered.

Unbidden, a flirty quip perched on her tongue, to say his crew had been exaggerating, that there was nothing wrong with the way he smelled from where she was standing, but Makino swallowed the words back down before she could speak them.

He paused by the door, even as she didn’t turn around to look at him, but she felt his eyes on her back, like his presence filling the space, and wondered if he might say something else, and if she wanted him to.

But, “Sleep well,” Red-Hair said, before he walked out, shutting the door behind him. And he hadn’t even brushed up against her, but she could feel his warmth where it lingered, and his presence where it retreated down the passageway.

Letting go of the painful breath she’d been holding, Makino felt as her whole body threatened to follow, and turned to the bath when she suddenly stopped, gaze seized by the captain’s logs haphazardly shoved together in the shelves.

Her fingers twitched, but she stopped herself before her curiosity could make her walk over and pull one out, stripping off her tunic instead, and tied her hair up in a bun, before she stepped into the deep tub.

The water was bone-meltingly hot, and such a fierce relief, she didn’t bother stifling the moan that left her as she sank into it. She hadn’t realised how tense she’d been until she felt it bleeding out of her now, the knots in her muscles loosening.

Steam rose around her, curling her hair at her temples, and the loose strands at her nape. And sitting there, she had to wonder at the ease that she’d accepted the small amenity; the willingness to allow herself to be vulnerable, bathing, which had felt too dangerous that first day aboard, most of which she’d spent shut away in his cabin, away from his crew, and close to her weapons, fearing that she might need them.

She sensed them now in the galley, those who hadn’t retired to bed. Red-Hair was there, but she didn’t flinch away from his presence, or how easily she could single it out from the rest. There was a new lightness in it, not weighed down quite as heavily as it had been, that first day when he’d barely been able to look at her.

 _Shanks_ , she thought, testing it out, silently shaping the sounds with her mouth. Thinking of him as  _Red-Hair_ felt safer, felt like keeping him at a distance, but thinking it now, she felt an almost rebellious urge to see what would happen if she stopped playing it safe; if she continued across the tentative bridge they’d built today, to whatever lay on the other side. If she allowed herself to trust him, the way he’d so confidently said she would.

He was charming, and he knew he was charming, and it would be all too easy to let herself forget that she didn’t know him. It didn’t matter if she had once; she wasn’t that girl anymore. Whoever she’d been, she’d died on that slave ship, on that auction house stage, and a little more still, every year she’d lived with the Kuja.

But she’d fallen for that charm once, and it wasn’t hard for her to understand why, thinking of her reactions to him now—to his open admiration of her, and his flirting, which invited her to respond in turn; an undeniable chemistry she couldn’t ignore now that she’d allowed herself to acknowledge it.

And she didn’t know him, and wasn’t sure if she trusted him, but it hit her then, remembering the way he’d looked at her, that she hadn’t felt panic because she was afraid he would make advances she wouldn’t welcome, but because she couldn’t say for certain that she wouldn’t.

They had a history. They had a _child_ together. He’d been inside her, had known her as intimately as another person could. And even if she didn’t know him, there was a part of her that reacted to him like she did; an instinctive part that responded when he was near, and to the sound of his voice, and that had her eyes fleeting towards him, almost of their own volition. It was the one that kept being seized by the way his eyes curved when he smiled, and how his laugh-lines deepened; and by that unfairly attractive scar on his lip, and all the other little details she couldn’t help but notice.

And she might have forgotten her entire life before the age of twenty, but she wasn’t blind or stupid, and didn’t need someone else pointing out to her what half-besotted sexual attraction looked like.

But it was more than that. And she couldn’t identify the pain in her stomach, the deep clenching low in her gut, remembering the look on his face, and thinking that she might not have minded a look like that; to be _wanted_ like that, with someone’s whole being. To have him touch her like might have done once, the way she could only imagine. And it came to her a little too easily, those images, old daydreams spurred to life by her small collection of raunchy novels, and the wandering mind that had so stubbornly wanted to believe her daughter had been conceived with love.

Except the nameless, faceless lover in her imagination had very specific features now—a distinctive, sensual mouth, and big, rough fingers, and a thick stubble shadowing his cheeks. She could imagine the scrape of it against the soft skin of her inner thighs, and the heavy weight of him above her, the hard muscles in his back under her hands; the wideness of his bicep, and that absurdly taut stomach.

Thinking of his haki didn’t help, something inexpressibly erotic about it, and the feel of it around her, and inside her.

Her fingers had drifted down of their own accord, dipping through the water and between her thighs, seeking the throbbing ache there, and she wasn’t surprised when she found herself slippery, her breath gusting out with a shudder as she pushed her fingers inwards, imagining the sound of his voice, that rough, intimate timbre, coaxing, and large, calloused fingers in place of her own, thrusting inside her—

She jerked her hand back, the water splashing around her and over the side of the tub.

What was she _doing_?

He didn’t want her. He wanted a girl who didn’t exist anymore, and she couldn’t be her. They shared a child, that was all. And Rowan might be his, but Makino wasn’t.

She got up out of the bath, the warm water releasing her even as the ache between her legs remained, and dried herself off.

The cool air caressed her skin where she stood, naked by the tub. She’d left one of the shutters open, revealing the black sea beyond, the glass throwing back her reflection. Releasing the tie holding her hair up, Makino let it tumble down her back.

She wondered how much she’d changed. It had been only small changes for her, happening slowly over ten years, her hair growing longer, her callouses harder and her muscles tauter; her body lithe and slender, her small curves more defined where they’d been softer.

She touched her fingers to the wide scar on her shoulder, and there were more, marking her skin. Smoothing her hands over her taut stomach found them, stretch marks from being pregnant with Rowan, and deeper scars from the battle ring, although she found her freckles, too, the pale smattering over her shoulders, and her arms. But she had to wonder how much she must have changed, in his eyes.

Letting her hand drop, she turned away from the glass, and her reflection, but when she made to pull on the thin underdress she used to sleep in, paused, grimacing as she palmed it, rumpled and smelling of sweat. She would have to wash her clothes tomorrow—she only had the one shift with her.

She hesitated a beat, before walking across the cabin. And opening the chest she’d seen Red-Hair root through, she withdrew one of his shirts, the fabric softened from wear and many washes where she held it up to her nose.

It smelled faintly of him, and she slipped her arms into the big sleeves, although she had to loosen the knot on the left one to get her hand through.

It was huge on her, the cuffs hanging well past her hands and the hem nearly reaching her knees, and she slipped two buttons closed, smoothing her fingers over the fabric where it clung to her skin, damp from her bath.

Red-Hair wouldn’t need to know she’d borrowed it. It wasn’t like Makino was going to tell him.

And anyway, he had offered.

She put his captain's logs out of her mind, unable to endure the thought of reading about the things she found in his eyes when he looked at her; the reminder that he loved someone she wasn’t, and could never be, no matter how much Red-Hair wanted her back.

Making for the bunk, she eased down on the mattress, feeling for the first time just how achingly tired she was, the training and the bath and the long day sinking into her limbs. But even exhausted, she couldn’t get comfortable, turning on her side and her back, visited by the persistent thought, wondering if she’d ever slept here before, with him. If he had loved her here, like she imagined, with large, rough fingers and that warm, rumbling laugh, the images aided by the memory of sparring with him, the closeness of their bodies, and their unique rhythm, until she felt like stifling a scream into the pillow.

Tossing it away, Makino huffed, but despite her frustration, couldn’t help the tightness in her throat where it had closed up as she thought about him, and that tender smile, which seemed reserved for her—the girl he’d lost.

“Did you love him?” she murmured, but the silence had no answer for her, and if she’d ever slept there, the barmaid in her imagination had left no trace of herself.

It took her a long time to fall asleep, lying there in his oversized shirt, in his bunk that smelled of him, with her newly bathed skin that did the same, staring up at the beams and listening to the soft creaking of the timbers, wondering about that barmaid, and where she would have been now if things had turned out differently. If she would have been happy, and if it would have been with him.

And when she finally did sleep, she didn’t dream of a port she’d forgotten, but one she imagined, spun to life from a desire buried as deep as her memories, with clear, quiet shallows, and _peace_ , no weapons in her hands, and her daughter safe and laughing, and playing without a care.

 

—

 

_“Exiled?”_

Aster observed her calmly from over the counter, expression unchanged despite the reaction she’d prompted, the whole tavern having gathered to express their shock, but she didn’t budge, a steady hunter facing down a nest of vipers.

“Surely there’s been a mistake,” Gloriosa said, standing at the front of the crowd. “Hime-sama wouldn’t—not _Makino_.”

The heavy arrangement of her white braids shifted as Aster turned her head, tumbling over her shoulder as she lifted it in a deceptively casual shrug, although her outward ease was betrayed by the feeling in her one yellow eye. The tiny cigarette holder hooked around her middle finger yielded a curl of smoke, before she put it back to her lips. “I’m only relaying what I was told.”

Gloriosa said nothing, only pressed her lips together. They'd come to hear the news about Hancock and the rest of the Kuja Pirates. Kikyo hadn’t been able to get more than a message through when she’d called, and this was the first word they'd heard back since they’d set out for the New World. But no one had expected this.

“But what happened?” someone behind her demanded—Nerine, who'd abandoned her eager note-taking out of surprise. More were coming in from outside, having left their posts and activities as the news spread, a whole crowd filling Aster's tavern now.

“The Commander, _exiled_?”

“Why?”

“And _how?_ ”

Aster didn’t answer. Instead, she was looking at Gloriosa, her expression betraying none of her thoughts, as she told them, “They ran into Red-Hair, in the New World.”

The rising din went immediately quiet, the crowd compelled to complete silence by the unexpected news, right on the heels of the first.

“Ah,” Gloriosa said. “So the truth has come out at last.”

Aster’s face surrendered nothing, even as murmurs of confusion rose up from the gathered women. Inclining her head found them all looking at her, and, “He is Rowan’s father,” Gloriosa said.

Absolute silence reigned for a full beat, before shock replaced it, although not from all of them, Gloriosa saw.

“Red-Hair? The _Emperor_?”

“And _Makino?_ ”

“You knew, Elder Nyon?” Marguerite asked.

She shrugged. “I have eyes. They might be old, but they work.” She looked at Aster, who didn’t look surprised. So she hadn’t been the only one who’d had her suspicions. “She left with him,” Gloriosa said. It wasn’t a question.

Aster nodded. “They said it was to look for Rowan. Red-Hair offered to help her.”

“What of Hime-sama?”

Aster’s mouth tightened at the corners. It tugged at the scar cutting across her full lips. “There was a fight. Makino lost.”

“The Commander challenged Hime-sama?” someone blurted.

“As I understood it, Hime-sama was the challenger,” Aster said, to further exclamations of disbelief.

Gloriosa frowned, but said nothing.

“They suffered damage to their ship coming into the New World, but Red-Hair left them supplies for the repairs,” Aster continued, and this time, Gloriosa couldn’t conceal her own surprise.

“Hime-sama accepted help from Red-Hair? _Willingly_?”

“I suspect necessity demanded it, although I doubt she was happy about it,” Aster said. She tapped her cigarette over the ashtray. “But they’re proceeding with their mission.”

She made a sound of understanding. “Outrage is a powerful motivator,” she agreed, as the voices around her rose again, speculating the news; their Empress’ uncharacteristic behaviour, and what it meant for Makino. Although to Gloriosa, it wasn’t as out of character as it appeared, but she kept her voice low as she murmured, “And love. And your heart always did love so fiercely.”

The others were talking among themselves now, having retreated away from the counter to retake their seats, the rest going back to what they’d been doing, although the strange mood remained, lingering in the wake of their shock. The scent of jasmine sweetened the warm, windless air, and the setting sun warmed the oiled floorboards, where Aster’s companion had curled up to sleep in a sunny patch; a short-tailed boa with almost as many scars as his Mistress.

Aster had turned back to her work, although the trembling in her scarred hands betrayed her calm, but Gloriosa didn’t point it out. Makino had worked here ten years, had practically raised her daughter here. And exile wasn’t thrown around lightly in their tribe. Her own was the only one that had occurred in years, and even that had been largely self-imposed.

“Well, this is certainly an exciting turn of events,” she said, as she raised her eyes to the open doors, the blue silk curtains pulled back to reveal the sky, and the sunset in gold and red. “Although I shouldn’t be surprised. She wouldn’t be the first to follow her heart in such a way. There are ever more of us.”

Then with a click of her tongue, she mused, a little wry, “And hers wouldn’t be the first heart stolen by a charming pirate lord, now would it, Hibiscus?” She murmured the very last part to herself, before her brow furrowed. “Nyo, nyo, that's not right. What was the new name you chose? Ah! Yes."

"Rouge, wasn't it?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, the pining? I meant _mutual_ pining. Because nothing is quite as delicious as watching two people secretly long for each other like idiots. Especially if one idiot is determined to squash her own feelings. Ah, good times.


End file.
